Through Daeron's Eyes
by dancingkatz
Summary: Boromir and the rest of the Steward's family as seen through the eyes of the son of one of his officers. AU PreRing War fic. 2007 Middle-Earth Fanfiction Awards nominee.
1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:** _This was inspired by the Boromir's explanation that only he, Faramir and two other men escaped the rout at Osgiliath and a private challenge from a friend to write a story showing an LOTR canon character from the point of view of a silent "spear carrier". I wondered who the other two men were. I've decided that one of these men was his former squire, Daeron (my OC). There are 12 chapters planned but any one of them can stand on it's own and they will be posted as soon as they are edited. Reviews are welcome but not required as I do not think it right to blackmail my readers._

_(This story is also posted at the Open Scrolls Archive)_

_Many thanks to my sister RowanRhys for her encouragement and beta-reading._

**Disclaimer:**_"The Lord of the Rings" and any familiar characters, places and descriptions are copyright to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien and New Line Cinemas. The original characters Daeron and Halmir are copyright to myself._

**Through Daeron's Eyes: First Meeting**

_by Dancingkatz_

I've always wanted to be one of the Tower Guard, like my father. He was tall, and in the sable and silver livery of the Guard, looked to me like one of the statues of the Men that stood along the walls of the Citadel come to life. I longed to be old enough to join the boys who spent the afternoons in the training yards, learning to wield sword and shield, bow and mace. I lived for stories of battles and valor. Many times I'd sneak down from my room at night and sit in the corridor outside my father's study and listen to him and his fellow officers talk of the exploits of the Guard over their wine. I still remember the feeling of the chill of the stone wall against my 5-year old back the first time I dared this. It hadn't taken long before any discomforts were forgotten as my imagination painted glorious pictures from the words I heard.

As soon as I was old enough and clever enough to escape my tutor, I'd sneak off to the practice yards and watch the Guard companies training. In my free time I made a wooden sword and tried to imitate what I'd seen. I must have looked a fool to anyone who might have seen me flailing away at imaginary foes in my mother's garden. But it hadn't mattered then and I suppose it doesn't really matter now. I'm certain I wasn't the only boy in the City enamored of the idea of wearing the winged helm.

After I'd been listening to my father and his companions for some time, I realised that I overheard a particular name over and over again: Lord Boromir, the eldest son of the Steward. The stories mentioning him made even the actions of my brave father seem tame. A wish grew in my heart to one day meet this epitome of a soldier... and to be like him.

The first time I saw him he was riding at the head of his men as they returned from what I now know was a successful sortie against the orcs in Ithilien. At the time I didn't notice the bloodstains, sweat and dirt--much less the bandages--on many of the returning men. Nor did I notice the horses with empty saddles. I could be forgiven this, I suppose; seven year old boys only notice the things they want to. Besides, my eyes were fixed on the Steward's son. Tall, and looking every inch the hero of my daydreams, he rode a dark grey warhorse, and seemed a figure out of legends. If I'd had any doubts about what I wanted my future to be, the sight of Lord Boromir turned them to dust.

I'd like to say that the first time I met him I impressed him with my skill and strength. But it didn't happen that way.

My best friend Halmir had managed to get hold of two long knives that belonged to his elder brother. He had the idea that instead of practicing with our wooden swords we could use the knives, which were more than long enough for us to use as swords. Had I any sense I wouldn't have agreed to the idea, but how many arms-struck 8-year olds have any sense? My tutor was asleep in the coolness of his room and the leaves of the fruit trees my mother loved so much shielded us from the view of anyone in the house.

All went well until Halmir slipped during a lunge and the point of his knife scraped across my lowered makeshift shield and went into my unprotected shoulder.

I don't remember now if I screamed. I don't remember falling to the ground. I do remember that I was surprised how much it hurt.

Halmir gasped, scrambled to his feet and ran yelling towards the house and after that things got noisy and confusing. I remember my mother wailing and someone, I think it might have been my tutor, cursing fluently. Someone else was arguing about whether to pull the knife out or not. Halmir was standing nearby, staring at me and crying. Messengers were sent off…

Hasty footsteps echoed off the walls of the courtyard and the healer arrived accompanied by my father and two other men. I'd never seen my father look the way he did that day. His face was pale and stricken when he knelt by my side and that frightened me more than the pain and blood when the healer removed the knife from my shoulder.

It wasn't until they lifted me to a stretcher to be carried inside that I realized one of the men who had arrived with my father and helped hold me still while the healer stitched up my shoulder was Lord Boromir.

If I could have turned invisible and run away I would have. I was completely mortified and the burgeoning worry about what my father would have to say about the events of that afternoon was as nothing compared to my embarrassment. There's nothing that could be worse to an 8-year old boy than being seen crying his eyes out by his hero.

A little over a week later I was on my feet again with my arm in a sling. Halmir was avoiding me as though I had the plague, and someone had cleaned up the courtyard. The only sign of the event in question was a large darkened patch on the flagstones. I sat on the low wall that separated the western side of the court from the garden, purportedly to do my assigned history reading in the sunshine, and found I couldn't take my eyes off it. The healer hadn't been silent about how close I came to bleeding to death though he may not have realized I was still awake when he said it.

I didn't look up when I heard the footsteps approaching since I thought it was probably one of the people my mother had set to keep watch on me once I was allowed out of bed. So I was startled when an unfamiliar hand squeezed my good shoulder gently.

"I can tell you from experience that it doesn't do to dwell on it."

I tried to stand but he waved me back to my seat. "L-Lord Boromir…"

Some minutes later when he rose and strode down the path that led to the door to the house, and presumably continued out to the street, my eyes and mind weren't on the bloodstained flagstones or on the book that remained unopened on my lap.

He'd told me I'd been brave.


	2. War Games

_**Author's Note:** I had intended on writing these stories in chronological order to show the development of Daeron's relationship with Boromir. Unfortunately, my characters have demanded that I write the following, in spite of the fact it takes place when Daeron is fifteen. Lord Boromir does eventually make an appearance, I promise._

_Thanks to my wonderful twin for taking the time out of your busy schedule to beta this._

_Dedicated with love to Evendim, who is a true inspiration._

**Disclaimer:**_Middle Earth and the Lord of the Rings are copyright to J.R.R. Tolkien and this piece of fan fiction is not meant to infringe on that copyright. Daeron, Halmir, Laedren, Grethen, and Val are my own creation and are copyrighted to myself as are any other characters who are not familiar.

* * *

_

**Through Daeron's Eyes: War Games**

By Dancingkatz

Daeron groaned and hauled himself out of his bedroll when the Master at Arms roused the cadets before dawn. He ached in muscles he hadn't known he had and he didn't need to look at his shoulder to know that there was a livid bruise there from getting hit with a falling rock while sliding down the escarpment the day before to rescue his squad mate and best friend, Halmir. The other cadet had lost his footing on the wet stone and fallen from the ledge path.

Halmir had suffered a broken ankle and it had been hellish getting him (and his gear) back up to the path after Daeron had splinted the leg. From a personal survival aspect, it probably would have been common sense for Daeron to have left Halmir bundled up in his bedroll on the path while Daeron returned to the camp to get assistance, but he was reluctant to leave his injured friend at the mercy of the elements. The entire time they'd been in the field the weather had been gods awful; cold, wet, and the wind never seemed to stop blowing in your face regardless of the direction you turned. It was nearly dusk by the time they'd made it to the camp. He'd ended up carrying Halmir over his shoulder the last two hours of the trek.

He'd deposited his squad mate with the surgeons and went to the command pavilion to give his reconnaissance report.

"Cadet Daeron reporting, sir," he said after his salute had been returned. The commandant's adjutant had set his desk in front of the pavilion to take advantage of the fading light. This told Daeron that once again it would be a cold and dark camp.

"Go ahead, cadet."

Daeron made his report, including how Halmir had gotten injured and what he'd had done in response.

"Why didn't you leave him, cadet? He slowed you down. The reconnaissance information is vital and needed to be brought in as soon as possible," The adjutant inquired, taking the papers and pen from the sergeant who had recorded the report.

"There were other scouts out in the area, sir, who could bring the information in. I chose not to leave my comrade to a possible enemy. Had an enemy found him…" Daeron swallowed hard at the thought. "…He could have given them intelligence of our strength and battle plans." Daeron closed his mouth and kept his eyes on the canvas behind the adjutant and waited to see if he had overstepped himself. _Besides he's my best friend and I'm not going to leave him behind!_

The adjutant studied the fifteen year old for a moment before signing off on the report. "You are dismissed, Cadet. Pick up your ration from the mess sergeant and get some sleep."

Daeron saluted and made his weary way over to the canvas fly that was intended to protect the provisions from the vile weather. He collected his ration, cold oatcake and a couple strips of dried meat, and found a place to drop his bedroll and himself. He needed to get water and see if he could get his first aid supplies replenished and then fill the empty hole that was his stomach, but first he needed to stop and see Halmir.

The surgeon had refused to let Daeron speak to his friend, telling him to take himself off to where he belonged. Sighing, he went to fill his waterskin. The water in the stream was cold enough to numb his fingers. He trudged back to his bedroll and ate. It would be a very cold camp tonight since Halmir was in the surgeon's care and not present to share warmth and there were no fires that might dry wet clothing. Cold and miserable pretty much summed up the entire field exercise for Daeron and the rest of his academy class so far.

He made a shelter of sorts from his oiled canvas cape and took refuge under it as the sun set. The thing would at least keep the rain off his head. He closed his eyes, thinking about the adjutant's words. _What should he have done other than trying to bring Halmir in?_ Finally, exhaustion won out over thought and the misery of being cold and wet, and he'd fallen asleep.

He shivered in the predawn as he secured his bedroll and gear preparatory to the unit marching out. He and his compatriots were training to become officers but the current philosophy of the military academy was that no man could be a good officer without knowing what their men went through. Hence, the cadets' horses had been left comfortable in their snug stables, and the officers in training were learning the misery of the infantryman's life.

Fireless camps, cold, little food, rain, mud, and more rain seemed to be the lot of the infantry. As Daeron picked up his day's rations he thanked the gods that it wasn't yet winter and that once this training deployment was over they'd be returning to the cadet's barracks and hot food. He wasn't going to complain about the narrow bunks and barracks food ever again.

He fell into column when the order to march came and made his now customary prayer to the gods that he wouldn't screw things up today and his feet would hold out.

* * *

When the cadets were finally permitted to fall out from the column for the evening meal and the usual accompanying briefing on their location and potential problems from an enemy in the uneven terrain, Daeron didn't quite collapse in his tracks. He managed to find a spot in the lee of a rise where he could see and hear while staying out of the wind. At least it had finally stopped raining. He was soaked to the skin and the other cadets were in a like situation. Even oiled wool and canvas didn't do much to keep one dry if one has been practically swimming through water for the past week. Maybe they'd be lucky and they'd be permitted fires tonight. If so, modesty be damned, he was stripping and going to try to dry out at least some of his clothing.

During the march he had been thinking about yesterday's reconnaissance and rescue of Halmir. If the enemy would have been on their tail, if he hadn't been able to get his friend out of the ravine, if Halmir had been more severely injured or was too heavy for Daeron to carry, if… Suddenly he retched as the thing he'd avoided considering all day thrust itself to the front of his mind.

_Oh, gods, he would have had to kill his best friend!_

He retched again, until there was nothing left to come up and knelt on his hands and knees shuddering, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to deny the horrible fact.

"Daeron?" Grethen, the cadet who had the bunk across from him in the barracks, had approached when he realized there was a problem. "Come with me, you need to see the surgeon."

"No. I'll be all right. My stomach just turned is all," Daeron got up and dragged his gear away from the mess.

Grethen snorted. "Given the rations, I can't blame it. Come on, no surgeon then, but you're bivouacking with me and Val tonight. We can use the extra body heat!"

Daeron managed to laugh. Grethen was one of the largest of the cadets and Val constantly joked that the only reason he partnered with him in the field was because Grethen put out more heat than a camp stove! The truth of the matter was that Val—Envalion—had been best friends with Grethen since they were toddlers. The two were as inseparable as Daeron and Halmir were, and tonight Daeron was thankful for their generosity.

They'd finally been permitted fires and the cadets gratefully took advantage of the warmth to dry out their gear and warm themselves. Daeron ignored the snickers of some of the nearby cadets, stripped to the skin, and wrapped himself in his blanket. He arranged his wet clothing on a makeshift framework of branches and then cleaned and sharpened his sword and knife while his clothing dried out. Keeping busy and joining in Grethen and Val's banter and bad jokes, he managed to push aside the grimmer aspects of military life to the back of his mind.

A side benefit of the fires was the ability to brew tea. Between the hot, if bitter, liquid and dry clothing, Daeron was finally feeling warm for the first time since leaving Minas Tirith when he crawled into his bedroll to sleep. He missed the familiar sound of Halmir breathing at his back but Grethen and Val's presence in the bivouac definitely made it warmer than sleeping alone. Let the commons make snide remarks and smirk about "military relationships." When you were out in the middle of nowhere, sharing bed space with another man was about surviving hypothermia, not romance. Saying a silent prayer Daeron closed his eyes and gave in to exhaustion.

He'd been dreaming something concerning Halmir's accident when he was awakened by strong hands dragging him from the shelter. He was gagged, blindfolded and bound before he could identify his attackers or make a sound. When he continued to struggle, a hard fist against his jaw knocked him out.

His captors revived him by the expedient of throwing an icy bucket of water over him. The gag had been removed but he remained blindfolded and was still bound. He was hauled to his knees and froze as he felt the unmistakable coldness of a knife blade at his throat.

A voice in heavily accented Westron asked him if he wanted to live.

* * *

Coughing and choking, Daeron lay where he'd been flung after being half-drowned by having his head submerged in a bucket of cold water, for what he thought was the tenth time. His hands and feet were numb and still bound, he was still blindfolded, and he couldn't tell how long he'd been in the hands of his captors. They'd questioned him repeatedly, and when he refused to speak had shoved him face first into the water, hauling him out just before he could drown.

They left him alone for a while, soaked and shivering, then his interrogators began the process again.

_Where were the rest of the troops camped? How many men made up this unit? Where were they going? What was their mission? Who was their commander?_ The questions went on and on as the "encouragements" grew more varied and painful.

Daeron was all too aware that this wasn't a nightmare that he could wake up from. The questions never stopped. Nor did the pain and, worse, the fear. Finally, trapped between drowning in icy water and the heat of a red hot iron ready to fall on his back, Daeron broke.

Afterwards, he was rewarded with a blanket and a swallow of some liquor that, while harsh going down his throat, warmed his belly. Finally left to himself, he threw the blanket from himself and wept in despair and self-hate, his face against his updrawn knees.

He must have fallen asleep despite the pain he was in because he was startled awake by the noise of swords clashing and familiar voices.

"Here he is! Daeron, it's Val. Let me get this thing off you." The blindfold was removed and he blinked in the painful glare of lantern and firelight. It was indeed Val. "Gods, what _happened_ to you?"

A knife cut the bonds around his wrists and ankles then Grethen came round to his line of sight. "No time for questions, Val. Let's get him out of here and back to camp. This time he needs the surgeon."

Val snatched up the blanket and started to wrap it around Daeron's shoulders but the cadet pulled away.

"No!"

Val started to insist, but Grethen took one look at Daeron's expression, took off his cloak, and draped that about him instead. This garment was accepted and he stumbled out of the tent between the two. Just past the boundary of the enemy camp they were intercepted by a lieutenant—Lieutenant Bedreth, he thought—who sent Val and Grethen back to finish the "clean up" and turned Daeron over to the surgeon's corpsmen.

Shortly thereafter, Daeron found himself on a cot in a pavilion shared with four other cadets, each of whom looked as miserable as he felt. The surgeon went from one to the other, checking them over and administering the appropriate aid.

One of the corpsmen set up a screen between Daeron's cot and the others at a quiet-voiced order from the surgeon while the other stripped the filthy remains of Daeron's uniform from him and cleaned him up.

Daeron let the surgeon and the corpsman do their work without complaint as the burn on his shoulder and the welts on his back and arms were tended. He bit his lip against the pain of stitching one particularly bad cut on his left shoulder, and the dressing of the cuts and abrasions on his knees and feet. After swallowing a loathsome-tasting dose down his throat to guard against pneumonia he obeyed the surgeon's order to lie down on the cot but he didn't sleep.

He couldn't sleep. _How was he going to tell his father about his ignominy? How could he face any of his fellows much less his superiors with this failure? How was he going to tell Halmir?

* * *

_

The following morning found Daeron feeling hungover from the sleeping draught the surgeon had finally administered after finding the cadet still awake when he made his midnight rounds. The news that all the cadets would be facing a debriefing panel after breakfast didn't improve things. Nor did the word that Daeron was to be the last cadet summoned. The only good thing, in his opinion, about the morning was the arrival of Grethen and Val with a new uniform and his own boots. Val volunteered the information that they'd been found in the enemy camp and that he'd spent the evening polishing them.

"Well, we'll be sure to give you a good recommendation as a valet if you ever want to make a career change," Grethen offered as he combed Daeron's hair.

"Look who's talking!" Val retorted, grinning as he noted a small smile on Daeron's face. "Since I'm sure you don't want to arrive at your debriefing lying down, Greth and I have magnanimously offer to escort you. I promise—but I can't make any promises about that big oaf—that I won't drop you."

Daeron actually laughed as the comb bounced off Val's head.

* * *

Daeron was escorted into the command pavilion by Grethen and Val, who supported his limping progress until he was before the panel. He drew himself to attention as best he could and reported, his eyes on the canvas above the commandant's head.

Captain Laedren had hidden his disquiet behind a mask of professionalism as the fourth cadet P.O.W. left the commandant's pavilion after being debriefed; having only discovered that his son had been one of the randomly selected cadets to be captured in the exercise when the adjutant briefed the panel on the identity and physical condition of each rescued prisoner before the first cadet was summoned to report. Now as he watched his son stand and salute the commandant he was caught between pride and pity for his son, pride that the boy—no, man—had held out so long and well, and pity for the need to learn some of the hardest lessons a soldier was required to learn. His Captain-General, who was seated next to him, placed a hand on his shoulder in silent commiseration. Under other circumstances the young man who was the subject of the panel's attention might even have been Lord Boromir's son.

"Be seated, Cadet." The Commandant's Adjutant indicated a folding camp stool. "Cadets Grethen and Envalion, you are dismissed."

Daeron sat as instructed and kept his eyes forward as his escort left the pavilion. The breakfast the healer had pushed on him sat heavily in his stomach and the headache that had been with him since he wakened was getting worse. He was vaguely aware of others present but all his attention was on the academy commandant, his adjutant, and two lieutenants who were seated behind the table. One was Lt. Bedreth but the other was completely unknown to him. He couldn't help glancing to his left as one of the observers moved, causing his scabbard to rattle against his chair, but the lighting in the pavilion was set so that other than picking out the hints of silver braid indicating the presence of high ranking officers, he couldn't make a determination of their identities. He forced his eyes back to the front and waited for the axe to fall.

Upon questioning, he described his capture in the middle of the night from the camp, his awakening in the enemy camp, what they'd wanted to know, and what pressures had been brought to bear against him.

"How many of the enemy did you come in contact with?" "What could you tell about the enemy's morale?" "Did there seem to be any schism among those you came into contact ?"

Daeron had been blindfolded the entire time but his ears had still worked despite being filled with water.

"I think I heard five different voices, sir." He frowned and concentrated. "When they talked among themselves, well, it sounded like three of them were from different countries. They only spoke Westron to each other and the accents were all different."

"What about the other two?" The adjutant asked.

"I _think_ they were speaking Haradrim, sir. When they weren't questioning me they seemed to be arguing with each other. Finally, one of the ones that spoke Westron interrupted them, and well, read them the riot act."

"What else did you overhear?"

Closing his eyes, Daeron concentrated on recalling and describing all he'd heard and sensed during the times he was conscious and left alone. Still in this mindset he was blindsided by the commandant suddenly interjecting, "Did you give any information to your captors, Cadet?"

"Yes, sir." Daeron's eyes flew open, the two words had emerged without his volition, and he swallowed hard as his breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. It didn't matter how much he had overheard from his captors, he'd been captured and had given the enemy information, in violation of the Code of Conduct.

At that point they stopped questioning him and the commandant asked for the surgeon's report on Daeron's injuries. Lieutenant Bedreth read out the surgeon's report, during which time the Commandant looked increasingly grim. His next words were aimed at the other lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Kergil, I am disturbed by the severity of this Cadet's interrogation in comparison to those of the other prisoners. This _is_ a training exercise, if you recall."

The other Lieutenant, who was in charge of the "enemy" troops, stiffened at the implied criticism. "The Captain's pardon, but my instructions were to interrogate the selected cadets until such time as they gave up information but before any permanent damage was done. Cadet Daeron withstood significantly more than the other four cadets before breaking. At that, he provided little useful information. He never did divulge the identity of his commander or any of the passwords."

_It doesn't matter what I didn't tell them. It was that I told them anything at all!_ Daeron thought. _I should have been stronger willed. I shouldn't have given in._ The silent litany of blame was interrupted by the Commandant's voice.

"I believe that concludes this briefing, unless, you have anything to add, General?"

_General? The Captain-General of Gondor, Lord Boromir_? _Oh, gods! I should have let them drown me!_

"Not at this time, Captain." The tone of the Heir to the Steward's voice was unexceptional, but Daeron could feel the man's eyes on him. "Our discussion regarding the latest training exercise can wait until later."

"Cadet Daeron, you are dismissed. Master at Arms, summon the cadet's escort so he may return to the surgeon's purview."

Grethen and Val arrived instantly and supported Daeron as he limped from the tent. They had gotten about ten paces from the entrance when his stomach rebelled entirely. Grethen waited until it appeared he was done, hefted him into his arms, and carried him to the surgeon's tent despite Daeron's attempts to refuse assistance. Val ran ahead and so the surgeon was waiting when Grethen set Daron on the cot.

"Drink this all at once. Good." The surgeon set aside the dosing cup and nodded as Daeron's color improved. The honey-ginger tincture was already settling Daeron's stomach if not his mind. There was a commotion at the entry of the tent and the surgeon left to see to the problem, leaving Daeron to the attention of his squadmates.

"Come on, lets get those boots off you. " Val said, suiting action to his words. "Greth, see if you can find some food. Real food, not that slop we got last night."

"Should I raid the commandant's saddlebags? No, that would be cannibalism." Grethen squeezed Daeron's shoulder gently, and smiled when he snorted at the notion that the academy commandant ate cadets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

* * *

Grethen had found food; rabbit stew thick with potatoes and carrots, and reasonably fresh bread. Val provided tea, and in spite of Daeron's protests, the other cadet broke the remainder of his ration of sugarloaf into the pot.

"Shut it!" Val told him rudely as he poured hot water into the pot. "If we don't make sure you're taken care of, Halmir's going to have our guts for bowstrings. I can live without sweet tea until we get home."

Daeron gave up the argument and settled back onto his pillow, said pillow being his folded cloak. While he was being debriefed, someone had returned the few intact pieces of his uniform the "enemy" had stripped from him after his capture. Grethen had located the rest of his scattered gear, including his weapons, and had secured it under Daeron's cot.

After the stew had been consumed and the surgeon had checked over Daeron's injuries and dosed him with yet another medicine, the three friends finished the last of the tea and talked. The other four cadets had been released back to duty so Daeron was at present the only patient in the tent. The surgeon had been closed mouthed about when Daeron would be released back to duty, and given the way he was feeling, Daeron didn't argue with him.

"What I want to know is why neither of you woke up when they grabbed me," Daeron said into a lull in the conversation.

Both Grethen and Val looked embarrassed. "Well," the latter finally said, "we weren't in the shelter. We were, um, inspecting the trees…"

Daeron covered his eyes with his arm and groaned. "I am going to tell Halmir he _can_ have your guts for bowstrings. So I got captured because you two were out communing with nature. I suppose it's too much to ask if you even realized the camp had been invaded."

The silence was telling and Daeron chuckled. The chuckle turned to laughter, albeit somewhat hysterical laughter. Suddenly he clasped his arms around his chest, gasped, and the laughter turned to racking sobs. "Oh, gods!"

Grethen bolted for the doorway of the tent calling for the surgeon, and Val knelt by the cot, stunned and clueless as to what to do.

"Go outside, lad." Strong hands lifted Val to his feet and turned him towards the doorway then the owner of them sat on the edge of the cot and gathered the Daeron against his chest repeating, "Daeron. It will be all right. You will get through this. I'm proud of you." The familiar hands and voice eventually got through the hysteria and the cadet quieted.

"Father?"

"Yes." Laedren sat still and kneaded the back of his son's neck, feeling the recurring shudders that racked the fifteen year old.

"Forgive me—_please_…"

"There's nothing to forgive, son. You did as well as any veteran I know." Laedren spoke with assurance. "No soldier knows where his breaking point is. None of us are unassailable. We are each and every one of us human, which is _not_ a dishonourable estate. If you fail, think once on what you failed to do, learn from it, and then move on with what you've learned."

"But the debriefing…" Daeron began.

Laedren laughed softly. "Son, debriefings were created to knock out any ego that a soldier may have had the gall to develop. Even when you do everything right, you leave a debriefing feeling like you've made every mistake in the book."

"That's my speech, Laedren," said the Captain-General. "I ought to charge you royalties for stealing it." Boromir carried a horn cup in his hand, which he held out to Daeron. "From the surgeon. I assumed that you'd prefer not to be interrupted by the sawbones."

Daeron sat up and pushed his hair out of his face before accepting the cup. "Thank you, my lord." He eyed the dark brew askance but swallowed it down. As he expected, it was bitter. "Do you think they make painkillers taste so awful as to give us incentive us not to get hurt?" _Gods,_ d_id I just say that out loud?_

Lord Boromir guffawed and sat on the nearest empty cot while Laedren grinned and took the cup from his son. "It wouldn't surprise me. Now before that knocks you out, Cadet, we need you to answer some questions that the debriefing didn't touch."

Daeron noted that he'd been addressed as Cadet and realized that he wasn't speaking to his father anymore but to a Captain of Gondor. "Yes, sir."

"I understand that prior to your capture, you went on a reconnaissance patrol with Cadet Halmir, who was injured towards the end of your sweep. We've been informed of what you did but not why you made the decisions you did. Explain your actions."

"Halmir is my friend as well as my squad mate. The weather was wretched and if I'd left him there and gone to get help, he might have died from exposure. If the enemy came across him while I was returning to camp for assistance he would have been unable to move or hide. Once his leg was splinted I was able to haul him back up to the path and help him along. He's lighter weight than me and I carried him when necessary, staying hidden as much as possible." He paused, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. "If he'd been injured more severely or I couldn't move him, then I think I'd have made a different decision. I would have given him first aid and done my best to hide him from sight and protect him from the cold and then go to get help from the camp."

"What if the enemy was approaching and you weren't able to get your companion away?" This question came from Lord Boromir.

"If he was immobile I'd have to make it so he couldn't give the enemy sensitive information, and get myself back to camp to give warning along with my report. I'd have to kill him. If I was the one who was injured he'd have to kill me." The effects of the drug made the hard words easier to contemplate this time. "If he could move on his own, I'd try to lead the enemy away so he could take the information back. One or the other of us has to fulfill the mission without endangering the unit."

"Why didn't you give in to your captors earlier than you did?" This time the question came from his father. "You had little information of military value to them."

"I didn't know what they already knew, sir. One word could give them a missing piece that could lead to a successful attack against us." Daeron answered after a few more minutes of consideration. "I failed my duty by telling them anything, sir."

The bleakness of the last was echoed in his eyes. It didn't matter if a thousand others had given in under inquisition, he'd given the enemy information just to save his own life. It didn't matter that the whole thing turned out to have been an elaborate war game. The fact was that he had broken, and how could any commander trust that it wouldn't happen again?

"No one knows if it will happen the next time." Boromir said in the ensuing silence. "No, I'm not reading your mind. You have the same fears and worries that I had when I went through this. What is the Fifth Article of the Code of Conduct?"

Daeron automatically recited the article in question. The Code of Conduct was the first thing every soldier in service to Gondor learned when they began their training. It was the basis of unit cohesion and morale throughout the army. "When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give only my name and rank. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to Gondor, its King, should he return, the ruling Steward, its allies or harmful to their cause."

"Note that you are required to resist only to the utmost of your ability. You lasted nearly three days after you were captured before you broke. I only lasted one. Your father lasted for two, if I recall." Boromir said.

"Close enough," grunted Laedren. "Daeron, when you did reach your limit, you didn't tell them all you knew. Once you give them everything, they have no reason to keep you alive—unless you happen to be related to the most powerful man in the country, and they think they can wring concessions out of the government by offering his release in exchange."

"If anyone thinks they can wring concessions out of the Steward, they don't know my father. The security of Gondor is more important than any man." Boromir retorted. He turned his attention back to Daeron who was beginning to succumb to the full effects of the draught. "To quote someone I knew long ago, 'All a man may do is his best. So long as he does so, he retains his honour'. At ease, Cadet. Get some sleep."

Daeron didn't object when his father pushed him back against his folded cloak and turned down the lamp. His last conscious thought was that his strength might have failed in the end but he'd done his best.

* * *

The next day Daeron's father and Lord Boromir left to go inspect another unit. Halmir hobbled in on crutches early that evening announcing that he was going to be carted back to Minas Tirith with the rest of the cadets who'd weren't capable of making the march home. The two were still visiting when a rather bedraggled looking Grethen and Val stuck their heads in the doorway, inquiring if Daeron wanted more visitors.

Halmir snickered and waved them in. "What were you doing today, inspecting waterfalls?"

The two groaned and glared at Daeron who smirked and told them that they were crazy if they thought he'd ever let them live down abandoning him to be captured. The results of which comment brought the wrath of the on-duty surgeon down on them all and the acid comment that if Daeron felt well enough to roughhouse he was likely well enough to rejoin his unit in the morning.

After Grethen and Val took Halmir off to their bivouac Daeron settled back to sleep. The final words of Lord Boromir had been in his mind since the Captain-General had stopped by the medical tent that morning in the company of Daeron's father.

After Laedren had made his farewells, Boromir grasped Daeron's right arm in a warrior's clasp. "You did well, Cadet. Gondor's army is lucky to have such a man of strength and honour."

Before sleep claimed him, Daeron promised his absent General that he'd do his utmost to remain strong and honourable.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The Code of Conduct article that Daeron recites is based on article V of the Code of Conduct of the United States Armed Forces. The Code is the legal guide for the behaviour of U.S. military members who are captured by hostile forces. The actual wording of Article V of the Code of Conduct is: _"Should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies."_

For more information on the Code of Conduct, do a web search on the terms "U.S. Military Code of Conduct".

Regarding the war game training scenario of this story, I based many aspects upon my own experiences during mobility/survival training with the 3rd Combat Communications Group of the U.S. Air Force at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma in November of 1992. I am eternally grateful to the sergeants and officers who put me through the toughest and most rewarding month of my life. I wouldn't be the person I am today if not for those experiences.


	3. Yule Gifts

_Author's Note: This story takes place when Daeron and Halmir are 12 years old, the year before they are to enter the military Academy. Laedren (Daeron's father) and Boromir make several appearances in this fic._

_Disclaimer: If you recognise it, Tolkien owns it. If you don't recognise it, I own it. No copyright infringement is intended. _

_Dedicated to Rhyselle with much affection and thanks.

* * *

_

**Yule Gifts**

_By Dancingkatz_

T.A. 3010 – Near Midwinter (Yule)

Intent on what he was doing, Daeron was surprised when the door slammed open and Halmir burst into the room. As his best friend greeted him he stared in dismay at the gouge that now marred the once smooth leather.

"What--? Oh, Daeron, I'm _sorry_!" Halmir skidded to a halt by the table and bit his lip when he saw the damage to the all but completed bracer.

"Go away, Halmir." Daeron wouldn't look at his friend because he was afraid that he'd lose his temper completely. It was only a week until Yule, and the gift he was making for his father was ruined. "Don't say _anything_. Just… _go away_!"

Daeron waited until Halmir had left, this time closing the door quietly behind him, before throwing the knife aside and burying his face in his hands. His idea to make his father a new set of bracers had seemed a good one last summer but the entire project had been fraught with frustration.

From the poor quality leather the merchant had initially foisted on him to the second hand tools that were all he could afford, to finding the time to work on the bracers without anyone seeing what he was doing, he had been almost ready to give up. Only his wish to give his father a special gift kept him going.

He picked up the bracer and carried it to the window so he could examine the damage in the bright winter sunlight. The gouge wasn't excessively deep but if he smoothed and leveled out the surface the bracer would be too thin to offer any real protection. Sighing, he returned to the table and began to put his tools away.

An hour later he tentatively knocked on Halmir's door. Halmir opened it and they interrupted each other's apology.

"Daeron, I'm _really_ sorry…"

"Halmir, I _shouldn't_ have…"

Halmir dragged Daeron into his room and closed the door. "How bad is it?"

Daeron said nothing but handed Halmir the bag that held the bracers, before collapsing into the chair next to the fireplace. Halmir's dog, Alba—actually one of his father's retired hunting hounds—who was sprawled on the hearth rug, roused long enough to check if Daeron had brought him a treat and to swipe his chin with a lick before subsiding to his former position. Daeron apologised for not bringing Alba anything and scratched him behind the ears while Halmir inspected the bracers.

"I don't know how you could fix it so it's as smooth as the other one," he admitted finally. "But maybe Jorell might know what you can do."

"Who's Jorell?" Daeron asked, not really believing that anything could be done to remedy the problem.

"You haven't met him? He takes care of all the repairs on the tack and harness for the Citadel guard. If there's a way to fix this he'll know it." Halmir put the bracers back in the cloth bag and handed it to Daeron. "Come on, I'll take you to meet him. Let's go, Alba. You're coming, too."

The hound rolled his eyes at his master as if to say _Are you crazy? Leave my nice warm fire for all that white wet stuff and cold paws?_ but at Daeron's urging got to his feet and followed Halmir out of the room.

It wasn't really that far a walk to the saddlery that was tucked behind the stables, but both boys were glad to duck inside and get out of the frigid wind that was growing colder by the minute. As it was, Alba practically knocked them down in his attempt to escape the outside as soon as possible.

"Who have we here?" inquired a mellow voice from the other side of a screen that apparently blocked the wind from outside, as Alba paused to shake the snow from his back.

"Hi, Jorell!" Halmir called as he pulled Daeron after him. "Down, Alba! This is my friend Daeron."

Jorell was a stocky, dark haired, browned eyed man who was currently in the middle of replacing the flaps on a cavalry saddle from the looks of the workbench next to him.

"Well, it's good to meet any friend of Halmir's. What's brought you out in this weather?" He offered a callused and brown-stained hand to Daeron.

Daeron shook the proffered hand and decided he liked this man. "Halmir said that you might be able to give me some advice."

Jorell grinned and shot a sideways glance at Halmir who had made himself comfortable on an entirely disreputable looking sofa next to the stove and was currently arguing with Alba who got the most comfortable spot. "Advice? Well, it depends on what kind of advice you're seeking. Tell me your tale and I'll see what can be done."

Daeron pulled the bracers out of their cloth bag and offered them to Jorell. "They're for my father for Yule…"

Jorell reached to turn up the lamps over the workbench, cleared a space, and laid the bracers out flat. The gouge was even more apparent under the brighter light. "Hmmm. You made these?"

Daeron replied in the affirmative and explained that he'd found a pair of very old bracers in one of the trunks in the attic and copied the pattern. "Is there any way to fix it? Yule's only a week away."

Jorell didn't answer immediately. Instead he carefully examined each bracer; looking closely at the stitching, the smoothness of the edges, and the setting of the rivets that attached the straps. "No, lad. There's nothing that can fix that gouge—" he held up a hand, forestalling Daeron's expression of dismay. "But, there are ways to salvage the situation."

"But, _how_?"

A bit of scrap leather sailed across the room to hit Halmir on the head. "Halmir, make yourself useful. Get that box off the second shelf of that cabinet and bring it here."

Sighing dramatically and muttering that he never got any respect, Halmir retrieved the box and brought it over to the workbench. "I don't know why I come here. You always find a way to abuse me."

Jorell snorted. "Just be glad I'm not a bricklayer or you'd have been knocked out cold. You may as well learn to do this, too."

The finely finished box held a collection of dies and knives along with a set of sharpening stones. Jorell pulled out the largest of the dies and displayed it to the boys. "You ever wonder why all the uniform tack decorations are identical?"

Daeron glanced up at Jorell for permission and took the die in his hands. It was a depiction of the White Tree. "It transfers the pattern, doesn't it? Then you can carve it and it will always look the same."

"Exactly." Jorell took the die back and reached past Daeron to pull a slab of granite closer to the edge of the table. "Grab a piece of cowhide from that basket and lay it on the granite. Halmir, hand me that wood block and hammer."

Fascinated, the boys watched as Jorell set the die on the hide, covered it with the wood block and carefully brought the hammer down on top of it. When the block and die were moved away, a fine-lined image of the White Tree had been impressed into the leather.

Jorell then used one of the knives to carve along the edge of the trunk of the stamped tree, cutting a beveled gouge that accentuated the image. Within a few minutes the left side of the tree was completed.

Handing the knife to Daeron, he instructed him to practice cutting a few beveled lines, giving advice as to angle and depth. Daeron was astonished at how the slightest change in the angle of his hand or an increase of pressure could change the character of the line. Once it appeared that he had the idea, Jorell told him to complete the tree.

Then he turned to Halmir and got him started doing the same on another piece of leather.

The boys now being occupied and Alba snoring on the sofa, Jorell went back to his work on the saddle, periodically stopping to check on their progress.

Daeron seemed to have an innate talent for the task. He was bent over the workbench, an intent expression on his face as the final branches of the tree developed under the knife. Halmir was obviously enjoying himself but it was equally obvious that his talents lay in a different direction.

Daeron finished the last cut and straightened up, putting the knife down and shaking out his hand. He'd have to practice a lot to get the same degree of finish as Jorell had but he was pleased with what he'd accomplished.

"Very good. I think that if you practice doing this for the next two days, you'll be able to carve the White Tree on the bracers and hide the damage," Jorell told him. "Come back tomorrow after lunch."

"what about me?" Halmir interjected. Jorell laughed and tousled the boy's hair. "You can come, too. Just leave your dog at home. I can do without the dog hair on my furniture."

"As if it makes any difference to the couch," Halmir muttered. "Oh, I forgot. My cousin Marnil's back from Pelargir. I'll be lucky to escape the house with all the relatives here. Come on, Alba. Let's go."

The hound reluctantly left the couch and followed Halmir outside.

Daeron took a minute to clean up the leather shavings and put the knife away. "Is it all right if I leave the bracers here? Until tomorrow at least?"

Jorell got down a tray from one of the shelves and taking a charcoal stick scribbled Daeron's name on the front edge. "Put them in here and they'll be waiting for you. Oh, yes. Just drop the shavings in that box over there. They can be useful."

Daeron emerged from the saddlery shortly thereafter only to be hit in the chest with a well-aimed snowball. Before he could gather a handful of snow to return fire a second missile hit him on the head.

"Got you!" Halmir shouted and the snow battle was joined. Even Alba got into the act, leaping up to catch snowballs in his mouth.

Daeron was about to drop an armful of snow down the back of Halmir's coat when a blast of silver trumpets rang out. "Ha! Lord Boromir is back! That means father's back as well!"

The snow battle forgotten, Daeron ducked between two buildings and climbed up one of the support buttresses to look over the wall of the sixth circle. "There they are! Look, Halmir!"

There was no mistaking the Steward's Heir as the troop rode towards the main gates of the city. And as Daeron expected, his father's dapple grey gelding, Bréthil, was right next to the distinctive golden dun ridden by Lord Boromir.

"Do you want to go down to the gate and meet them?" Halmir asked, his eyes searching for his uncle and eldest brother amongst the troop.

"No, It's too long a walk back up. They'll be coming up here with the horses." Daeron waited until the troop had passed the first gate and hopped down from the bench, grinning.

"Well, I'm going to surprise Kal and Uncle Thavron at the barracks. I'll see you around if I can escape the family. Here, Alba!." Daeron watched his friend and the big hound out of sight then jogged towards the stable entrance. He knew his friend had left so he could have some uninterrupted time with his father. Halmir's father was one of the Tree Guard and so was home every night unless he had duty. Daeron's father, Lord Laedren, was Captain and Aide to Lord Boromir and was away much of the time accompanying the Captain-General.

It wasn't long before the troop arrived in the stable yard. Apparently, the last part of the ride had been done at an easy pace, none of the horses were blowing or sweated, but all were in need of grooming from the spatters of slush and mud on their coats.

"Aren't you supposed to be at home studying with Janthred?" Laedren teased as he spotted Daeron coming out of the stable that housed Bréthil's box.

Daeron grinned at his father as he took Bréthil's bridle and patted the grey on the neck. In return the horse nibbled on his hair and hinted that he'd really like a treat. "Janthred is on his way to his sister's house in Greywood for Yule. Sorry, Bréthil, I don't have anything for you today." As his father dismounted the big grey gelding, he added. "I thought you weren't going to be back for another three days."

"Do you want me to leave again?" Laedren tousled his son's hair as he put his other arm around the boy's shoulder. He remembered how he'd felt about being hugged in public at age twelve and his son was likely the same way. Hugs and goodnight kisses were given and accepted in private, not in the full view of friends and men you wanted to impress.

"Of course not! Can I help you with Bréthil?" Daeron knew he should go home and let his mother know that Laedren was back early but his father had been gone nearly three months to Cair Andros and he was loath to give up any time with him at all.

"Of course. You can help me with this armour, as well. It'll be good practice for next year." Laedren handed Daeron his helm and took Bréthil's bridle.

If anything, Daeron's grin got even bigger. "Next year? You mean I've been accepted for the Academy?"

"There I go giving out classified information. I wasn't going to tell you till Yule, but…" Laedren led Bréthil into the stable and started to remove his armour. "I don't suppose that you have anything to tell me about what you've been up to in the past three months? Other than adding what has to be a half head of height on yourself, I mean."

Daeron set the helm and the pieces armour that his father handed to him on the bench opposite Bréthil's stall then turned to help with the tack; but his way was barred by the passing of another horse, this one a distinctive golden dun even taller than the big grey. Everyone in the city knew this horse by sight and Daeron hastily bowed as the Steward's Heir led Gyldenlác, his Rohirric stallion, into the stall next to Bréthil. Once the way was clear, Daeron joined Laedren in the box and took the bridle from his father. The big grey already had his nose in the watering trough. "I've been studying with Janthred, of course. Right before he left he said we'd be starting on military jurisprudence when he got back. Why can't he just call it army law like everybody else does?"

After hanging the bridle on the hook provided, Daeron unsaddled the gelding. He flipped the girth over the seat and frowned. The two of the three straps that attached it to the saddle were worn almost through. He put it on the rack and fingered the damaged leather, worriedly. "Father, your girth…"

"I know. We'll stop by the saddlery on the way home and see if it can be repaired. That's one of the reasons why we didn't gallop in. Get me— ah, you were busy while we rode up, I see. Brushes, rub rags, even a bucket of water and saddle soap." Laedren sounded pleased.

When Daeron went back into the stall, he grabbed a handful of straw and started removing the mud that had spattered on Bréthil's off side. The gelding's ears were drooping in contentment as the Captain and his son worked over him and caught up with each other.

"How's that pony of yours? I'm surprised you weren't down outside the gates riding when we arrived,"

"Dae lost a shoe and split his hoof—the off fore—three days ago. He's still at the farrier's. We had to walk him nearly four miles back to the gate." Daeron stopped brushing Bréthil and looked miserable, thinking about the sturdy highland pony he'd been given for his sixth birthday. "I pulled him up as soon as it happened but—"

Bréthil turned his head and butted it against Daeron's shoulder so he started brushing the gelding again. "The farrier said it would heal but I won't be able to ride Dae until the hoof grows out."

"It wasn't your fault, Daeron. Horses will lose shoes and accidents will happen. You noticed it immediately and did the right thing. Dae will recover in time."

Suddenly, their conversation and the relatively quiet sounds of the men working on their mounts and talking was interrupted by a clang, a splash, and loud and inventive cursing. Bréthil cocked an ear towards the neighboring box and snorted in what sounded like amusement.

"I ought to have your rendered down into glue, golden boy!" Boromir roared. "I don't care if you were a diplomatic gift from Theoden. He just wanted to get you out of _his_ stable."

Laedren turned and looked over the boards into Gyldenlác's box and laughed. The stallion had waited until his rider had bent to dip the sponge and kicked the bucket of water over, drenching Boromir, who had stripped down to his shirt and breeches to better deal with grooming his horse. Of course, the stallion looked perfectly innocent, sanguinely mouthing hay from the net hanging in the corner of the stall.

Daeron bit his tongue to stifle his own laughter and went to the storeroom at the end of the corridor for towels and a blanket. When he returned with his arms full he found that Lord Boromir was humorously recounting more details of just why "Gyl" would be more useful as any number of things other than a warhorse. Laedren was laughing like a drain and leaning against the boards separating the boxes while Bréthil and Gyldenlác looked like they were exchanging similar comments on the qualities of their respective riders.

Daeron draped the towels and blankets over the door to Gyl's box and returned to grooming Bréthil. In a few minutes the hilarity subsided and everyone returned to tending their mounts.

"He'll do. Lets take care of the tack and after I check on my men we'll go home." Once they had the tack cleaned Laedren dropped the brushes and rags into Daeron's arms and gave him a push towards the storeroom. While Daeron was on that errand his father dumped the bucket in the drain-channel.

Boromir caught Laedren's eye as he was putting the bucket away. "You've got a good lad there. Bring him with you on the Eve."

"Yes, my Lord." Laedren gave a formal salute and bow, then grinned as his commander and friend rolled his eyes. "I'm just getting back into practice, Ori. I can't call you by name in front of your Lord father now, can I?"

"Well, you _could_ but I wouldn't recommend it." Boromir clapped Laedren on the back and returned to Gyldenlác's box.

Daeron reappeared and his father handed him the damaged girth as well as his greaves and helm. "I'll get the rest. Now to see the saddler."

As they made their way around the stables to the saddlery, Daeron suddenly realized that he was supposed to spend tomorrow afternoon with Jorell practicing. With his father home how was he going to explain his absence without ruining the surprise?

He needn't have worried.

Jorell gave him a discrete wink as Laedren explained about the girth and took the offending item from where it was draped over Daeron's shoulder. After some minutes examining the girth he nodded decidedly. "Well, you were lucky it lasted this long with the way those buckle rivets were set. _I_ certainly didn't put those in."

"No, Fedrel did that up at Cair Andros nearly three months ago. Can it be fixed or is my pay going to be docked for a new one?" Laedren inquired.

"Oh, it can be fixed, sir." Jorell tilted his head towards Daeron. "Perhaps your son would like to come round tomorrow and learn how it's done? At the least, he'll get an idea how to tell if his harness has been repaired correctly."

"Certainly. I should have thought about introducing you to Daeron months ago. When should I send him over?" Laedren looked at Daeron to see if he had any objection. "It will keep him out of trouble while his tutor is away."

Daeron had no objections at all to the idea but felt it necessary to object to the intimation that he was a troublemaker. "_Halmir's_ the one who finds trouble. The problem is that it always happens when I'm nearby."

The two older men laughed and Laedren ruffled his son's dark hair again.

"Be here right after the noon meal, Daeron." Jorell put the girth in one of his trays and labeled it. "When are you heading out again, Captain? It will be a few days before I can get it completed."

"Not until after Yule. So you have a week at the least." Laedren shook hands with the leatherworker and guided Daeron back outside. The weather had changed and now big, fluffy snowflakes were drifting from the blanket of clouds above them. The wind had quieted, and though it was cold, it was so beautiful that Daeron didn't mind the walk down to the barracks on the third circle.

They were there only long enough for Laedren to make sure that all his men were settled in and to see if there were any personality conflicts that could be remedied by rearranging billets. There weren't any problems. His troop had been living and working together since he'd been promoted to Captain nearly five years earlier. Daeron watched with pride as his father walked through the barracks always seeming to know what to say to each man. As he prepared to leave, the most senior of the sergeants proffered an invitation to his Captain and the Captain's son to join the troop a few evenings hence for a meal and toast to the season.

When Laedren accepted on both his and Daeron's behalf, the sergeant grinned. "'t won't be fancy like they'll be having up at the Citadel but you won't leave hungry, I can promise ye."

Daeron thanked the man for the invitation saying that he would be honored to join them, and on the spur of the moment, offered a bow to the gathered men.

As he followed Laedren out into the dusk to make the climb to the Sixth Circle, Daeron blushed to overhear one of the soldiers say, "Jus' like his Dad. Quality!"

Laedren had heard the praise as well but pretended not to because it was obvious that Daeron was embarrassed by it.

When they got home, Laedren handed his armour over to one of the waiting servants and went to greet his lady wife. Daeron looked at the greaves and helm in his arms and followed the servant to the small room off the study where his father kept his weapons and gear when he wasn't out in the field. It would be at least an hour before dinner would be served, if not longer. He might as well keep busy until then. At any rate, cleaning his father's armour might preoccupy him enough to let him ignore the fact that his stomach was currently far too familiar with his backbone.

The servant brought the supplies that Daeron needed and then left when his help was politely refused.

Daeron had finished all but one of the lamed pauldrons when Laedren appeared at the door dressed for dinner in an ornately embroidered velvet tunic in deep forest green.

"You've been busy, I see. Leave that and get cleaned up. Your mother says you're to wear a dress tunic since we're dining formally tonight."

Daeron wondered who the guests were that made it necessary for his mother to decree that he dress up for dinner. Usually, if there were guests important enough to dress up for he ate in his room rather than join the adults downstairs.

He was still fighting with the tunic's recaltricant top button as he hurried down the corridor to the dining room, trying to remember the finer points of formal etiquette that both his mother and Janthred had been trying to get him to remember for years. He finally got the thing fastened and taking a deep breath opened the door.

* * *

The next morning he gratefully enjoyed the absolute informality of eating breakfast at the wide kitchen table while the cook and servants bustled about. It was a wonder he'd managed to eat anything the night before what with having to remember what to do when and with what. At least his mother seemed to have enjoyed it. His father hadn't laughed but there was no way that Daeron could miss the amusement that lit Laedren's grey-green eyes. 

Daeron had thought more than once during the interminable meal that he just might prefer reading up on military jurisprudence under Janthred's watchful eye than any more lessons in social etiquette. But when his mother appeared in the doorway, looking like a woman with a mission he realized that more lessons were exactly what he was going to get.

It was with immense relief that he escaped the house and headed for the saddlery. He was back in his most comfortable clothes and the cold air was refreshing after spending the morning in his mother's stuffy sitting room pretending to be formally presented to persons of various rank. Ha had a scratch on his neck from the braid at the collar of the dress tunic she had insisted he wear for the exercise and a burgeoning bruise on one knee from where he'd slipped on the polished floor. This etiquette thing was literally becoming a real pain.

Jorell welcomed him warmly and waved him towards the workbench. The damaged girth lay there along with a collection of tools.

"We'll work on the girth first then you can practice on your special project." Jorell told him. "Now, tell me what's wrong with the girth, in detail."

By the time Daeron left the saddlery his hands and arms ached but he didn't mind. He was pleased with the way the afternoon had gone. His father's girth was on its way to being repaired—they still needed to stitch the new lining to it so the stitching where the new buckle straps were attached wouldn't irritate Bréthil's skin. Then they had to waterproof the stitching where the new buckle ends had been attached. Additionally, he'd successfully carved four images of the White Tree on the practice leather and Jorell had said that he was ready to start the work on his father's bracers.

It was only as he entered the house and saw his mother coming down the stairs from her rooms wearing one of her best gowns that he remembered that dinner was formal that night.

The days passed quickly as Yule approached. The afternoons spent in the saddlery didn't quite make up for the mornings spent under his mother's tutelage nor the formality the evening meal had become or being unable to spend time with Halmir but he was just about finished with the bracers. Careful placement of the pattern had incorporated the gouge into one of the branches of the White Tree and Jorell seemed pleased with his work on the girth as well.

* * *

The day before the Eve of Yule Daeron entered the saddlery to find Jorell tooling the brow band Daeron had made the while learning the techniques that were used to fix the damaged girth. A garland of roses were blooming on the strip of leather under his knife as Daeron watched. 

"It's beautiful," Daeron said as Jorell straightened up and set the knife aside. "And your did at all freehand."

"That comes from practice. When you do this long enough you don't need templates or guides for the patterns you do a lot." He nodded towards the bench that Daeron had been working at. The bracers had been dyed black yesterday and left to dry. "Before you burnish those, I have something to show you."

Jorell opened a locked cabinet and withdrew a stout box and opened it. Inside were withdrew a bottle of what looked like glue, a fine paintbrush, a collection of agate burnishers, a small sharp knife, a pair of tweezers, and what looked like a small booklet containing what Daeron thought were silver leaves.

"Did you ever wonder why the silver on the dress saddles and bridles never tarnish, lad? It's because we don't use silver." He carefully used the tweezers to pull a single sheet of the leaf from between the tissue pages of the booklet and held it up to the light. "We use _mithril_."

The thin leaf of the glowing metal was returned to the booklet and Jorell explained the process of laying the metal leaf to decorate the leather. "It can be done with any metal, but silver tarnishes, and gold is too soft for anything that isn't kept inside. Mithril leaf, however, is strong and once its laid it's there until the leather wears away under it."

As Daeron watched, one by one the carved roses on the brow band were lightly painted with glue and a tiny piece of the mithril leaf cut just large enough to cover the glued area was pressed into it. Once all the leaf was in place, Jorell counted to sixty then used a thin agate burnisher to polish the leaf smooth. He used the pointed tip of another burnisher to turn back the one or two areas where the leaf had extended past the edge of the glue and pressed it back into the mithril. To Daeron's surprise the folded edge appeared to melt into the rest of the metal. Finally, Jorell used a piece of white silk to polish the entire band. The mithril blossoms gleamed in the lamplight on the dark leather.

Then to Daeron's terror and delight, Jorell talked him through leafing the carved decorations on his father's bracers. All he'd wanted to do was to salvage the damage and still have a gift for his father but Jorell's patience and generosity had made them into a gift a Prince would be pleased to receive.

"Thank you, Jorell." Daeron said as he carefully wrapped the bracers up and tucked them in a cloth bag. "Saying 'thank you' just doesn't seem like enough for everything you've done."

"Come back after Yule. A soldier should know who to take care of and repair his own gear, and if I have you around I can give you the boring stuff while I woke on the things I prefer to work on." Jorell handed him the brow band. "Take this for your mother. I know you haven't had time to do anything about a gift for her since you've been here every afternoon. And don't forget your father's girth."

Daeron tucked the brow band into the bag with the bracers and gathered up the girth after donning his cloak. "Thanks again, Jorell. Happy Yule. I wish I had a present to give you." He paused a moment then gave the man a hug before running outside.

Jorell smiled after him. "You just gave me one, lad. You just gave me one."

Daeron made it to his room and put the gifts away in his clothes press without running into either his father or mother. He had another thing to be happy about. Tonight he was accompanying his father to the barracks for dinner instead of having to suffer through yet another set of etiquette lessons disguised as a meal.

Dinner with the troops had been educational in its own way, but it was infinitely more relaxed than dinner at home would have been. The best part was after the meal -which had been, as promised, not fancy but very tasty- when the men settled with their pipes to tell stories. They only left when it became obvious to Laedren that his son wasn't going to be able to keep his eyes open for much longer.

* * *

The Eve of Yule dawned bright, sunny, and cold. Daeron carried the repaired girth down to breakfast and blearily wondered if he could talk his mother into skipping the etiquette lessons for once. 

It turned out that Lady Meriel had far more on her mind than etiquette lessons. She was dressed in a plain blue gown and apron and was busy going over various lists with the cook when Daeron stuck his head into the kitchen. The rest of the house staff seemed to be in there as well and given the foodstuffs and supplies piled on the big table, it was more than obvious that breakfast was being served elsewhere in the house.

Before he could ask anyone he was turned round and pushed towards his father's study.

"I would stay out of there, if I were you. You might find yourself part of the Yule Feast tomorrow instead of eating it!" Laedren was cheerful and given the late hour of their return far too awake in Daeron's opinion.

After some toast, cheese and eggs, Daeron was properly awake. He waited until Laedren had finished his own portion and handed him the girth strap.

Laedren took it from him and found that not only had the damaged end of the girth been completely replaced with new straps and buckles, but the underside had been lined with soft padded doeskin, and the use scratches had been buffed away. "Jorell does excellent work."

Hesitantly, Daeron said, "Actually, father, Jorell showed me what to do and I fixed it. He double checked everything, though," he added hastily.

Laedren smiled at his son. "Well, since your mother is busy this morning, shall we go for a ride and I can try it out?"

Daeron's returning smile faltered. "I'd like to, but Dae's lame, remember? You go and I'll stay and read one of those books that Janthred left me. I ought to look at least _one_ of them before he returns."

"No, you come with me. I'm sure we can find something for you to ride. It's a holiday and you'll have more than enough studying to do once Janthred gets back. Go change your clothes and meet me in ten minutes at the front door."

Daeron took his father at his word and was arrived at the foot of the stairs just as Laedren returned from having a few words with his wife.

The stable was fairly quiet with only a groom or two in sight and most of the boxes occupied by drowsing horses.

"Here, tack up Bréthil, and I'll check with the Horsemaster and see who I can get for you to ride." Laedren handed him the girth then strode down the corridor.

Daeron opened the Bréthil's box and received the usual greeting of sniffs and hair nibbles. There wasn't much stable dirt to be brushed off the dappled grey hide and Bréthil was an accommodating horse by nature, readily taking the bit when it was offered.

Daeron had just secured the girth and checked the stirrup leathers when the sound of hooves walking down the stone-floored aisle made him look up.

Laedren was leading an elegant blood bay mare that wore a dark green blanket decorated with the symbol of their House differenced by the cadence mark indicating the House's heir, under the beautifully tooled saddle.

Completely stunned, Daeron was speechless. He stepped out of Bréthil's box and offered the bay the flat of his palm. She was absolutely perfect, from her delicate nose to the tip of her lush black tail. She responded by sniffing his hand then laying her chin on his shoulder. As soon as the introductions were completed Laedren handed Daeron the reins.

"Her name is Ruinanor.." Laedren said. "Happy Yule."

"Ruinanor." Daeron was still stunned. She was _his_? He turned shining eyes on his father. "She's perfect, wonderful… oh, _thank you_!"

"Well, take her out to the yard while I get Bréthil, and you can try her paces."

Daeron discovered that Ruinanor was so much taller than his pony that he had to make use of the mounting block to reach the stirrup. But that inconvenience was forgotten as he walked her in serpentines across the yard. She was so responsive to the slightest shift of his weight and the lightest touch of the reins that it seemed she picked up on his very thoughts.

Laedren mounted Bréthil and caught Daeron's eye as he completed a turn. "Let's go. We need to be back home by mid-afternoon."

The guards at the main gate cheerfully saluted Laedren and wished he and Daeron "Happy Yule" and the sergeant in charge complimented Daeron on his new mount.

Once they had reached the snow covered fields between the walls and the beginning of the farmland Laedren marked out a large rectangular perimeter by trotting Bréthil round until they met back with his hoof prints. He dismounted and put Bréthil on a ground tie, then pulling a lunge line out of his saddlebag and clipping it to Ruinanor's bridle, he said, "All right, lad. Cross those stirrups and drop the reins. It's time you get to know how she moves."

The schooling session didn't last very long, perhaps half of an hour, by which time Daeron and Ruinanor had long since come to an understanding with each other.

"Very good," Laedren praised them, collecting the lunge rein and whistling for Bréthil. "Let's let them stretch their legs."

While waiting for Laedren to mount up, Daeron nudged Ruinanor into a trot and attempted to guide her with his legs and weight shifts alone. She was more than agreeable to the exercise and they completed 8 serpentines by the time Laedren drew up along side.

"Quit showing off, and take back your irons and reins." Laedren told him. Daeron complied with a grin, and found he needed to let the stirrups out a hole. Once his feet were back in place, Laedren gave Bréthil his office and the dapple grey warhorse cantered northwards. Daeron followed suit on Ruinanor, her hooves kicking up showers of snow behind her.

They were returning to the city when Daeron turned Ruinanor to the east, bent over her neck and then urged her into a full gallop. He didn't keep her at that pace very long and slowed her to a canter as he circled her back towards where Laedren and Bréthil had pulled up to wait. They were about 50 yards away when Daeron realized that two other riders were now waiting with his father. He immediately recognized Lord Boromir's Gyldenlác but the huge black standing by the golden dun's side was unfamiliar. He slowed to a trot then to a walk and finally halted about ten feet away from the trio.

_Was that_…_Lord Denethor_?

Daeron bowed as deeply as he could in the saddle towards the Steward and again -but not _quite_ so deeply- towards the Heir with his heart in his throat. He hadn't a clue as to how to proceed from there. None of his mother's etiquette lessons covered what to do when you met the Steward while out riding. As he straightened he noticed four mounted guardsmen a short distance away.

_I just know I'm in trouble now_, he thought as he glanced at his father. But Laedren seemed unperturbed.

Lord Boromir was the one who came to his rescue by grinning and nudging Gyldenlác forward to take a closer look at Ruinanor. "She's got quite a turn of speed on her. I think she'd leave me breathless as well. How are her gaits?"

"Ruinanor has a very smooth action, my lord." Daeron answered, smiling at his mount and stroking her neck as she turned and bumped his left knee with her nose. He then looked up at Laedren and smiled happily and proudly. "She's my Yule gift from my father."

"A most generous gift," Denethor opined. "Come, Boromir. The morning wanes. A happy Yule to you and your son, Lord Laedren." The Steward turned his mount towards the gates and was immediately joined by his escort.

"Ride her in health, Daeron," Boromir said then turned towards Laedren. "Until this evening, Laedren." He then sent Gyldenlác onward to join the Steward's party.

Laedren nodded towards the gates. "We need to go back as well."

An hour and a half later, both Bréthil and Ruinanor were groomed and snug in their respective boxes, the tack was cleaned and put away and father and son were demolishing a substantial luncheon in Laedren's study as the kitchen and dining rooms were off limits.

"What will happen to Dae, now that I've got Ruinanor?" Daeron asked.

Laedren stretched out his legs towards the fireplace and lit his pipe. "I was thinking about sending him to my cousin Narin's estate near Amon Din. Narin's son, Nevil, is five years old, and should be ready for a pony by the time Dae's hoof heals up. What do you think?"

"That sounds like a good idea. I'll miss Dae, but…" Daeron shrugged sheepishly. "Even if you hadn't given me Ruinanor, it wouldn't be too long before I was too tall for him."

"Technically, you're not big enough for Ruinanor, but you'll grow into her soon enough. This way you'll have about eight months to get used to her and learn what she can do before you start at the Academy."

Later that afternoon Daeron went up to his room and stopped dead in the doorway when he saw what was laid out on his bed.

A full formal Court outfit in dark green was draped over the bedspread, one nearly identical to Laedren's Court garb, save for the same cadency mark on the device – a branch bearing a silver rose crossed by a sword all in silver - that was blazoned across the front of the tunic. Everything was there; from the finely embroidered silk shirt to the heavy fur lined cloak and appropriate accessories.

"Do you think you can tolerate wearing it tonight?" Lady Meriel stood behind her son. "You certainly can't come with your father and me to the Citadel wearing your riding clothes."

Daeron was completely flummoxed. "But…"

She gave him a push into the room. "Why do you think you had a crash course in Court etiquette this week? Honestly, I hadn't intended on starting you on that until spring since you'll have to be presented before you start at the Academy. I certainly can think of more enjoyable things to do with my time than make you miserable. Get cleaned up and dressed and meet your father and I downstairs."

Daeron didn't recognize himself when he stood in front of the looking glass over the washstand to comb his hair. He looked like a young man instead of a child.

He dropped the comb and crossed to his bed, sitting down next to the cloak. He'd looked forward to Yule as always, but this year things were different. Ruinanor was a gift for a man, not a boy. And Court clothes? Yesterday next year seemed like it would take forever to get here. Now it didn't look that far away.

"Daeron!"

At his father's shout, he picked up the cloak and on the spur of the moment picked up his parents' gifts. He still wasn't certain that he had all the Court etiquette down correctly and if he was going to fatally offend someone, he'd prefer that his parents had received their gifts before his demise.

His mother looked like a queen, he thought, as he saw her in her Court gown of dark green and silver. Or at least like a queen ought to look, he amended, given that he'd never seen a queen.

His father's attire was identical to his own save for the addition of a formal Robe and the lack of the cadency mark on the embroidered device on the robe's left shoulder.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, Daeron paused and bowed before dropping to one knee and offering his duty to his father. Laedren squeezed his shoulder and bade him to rise and smiled as Daeron bowed and offered his duty to his mother.

Before rising at her bidding he gave her the silk wrapped package and wished her a "Happy Yule."

Smiling she untied the ribbon securing the cloth and smiled delightedly at the gleaming brow band. "It's lovely, Daeron! Wilwarin will look lovely wearing it when I ride out!"

After accepting his mother's hug and kiss, Daeron handed his father the other package. Laedren unwrapped the bracers and stood looking at them in silence, his fingers running over the burnished leather and outlining the mithril tree. Then, just as Daeron was about to pass out from holding his breath, Laedren smiled and met his son's eyes.

"I could use some help putting these on."

The rest of the night passed in a haze of happiness for Daeron with certain events remaining bright in his memory for the rest of his life: being presented to the Steward and both his sons and _not_ stumbling over the words and his feet as he went through the prescribed motions was only one of them.

Once the formal presentations and meal were over, the Court dispersed into smaller, informal groups. Elated that he hadn't disgraced himself and relieved that he hadn't spilled something on his clothes during the dinner, Daeron stayed by his father as Laedren greeted various friends and acquaintances. Unfamiliar with most of the subjects of conversation or uninterested in them, his thoughts dwelled on Ruinanor and whether he'd be able to escape the visiting family members and friends who would fill the house on the morrow and ride her again.

Suddenly, two hands came down on his shoulders and jolted him back to the present. "I didn't realize that bracers were now a necessary part of formal Court dress, Laedren," Boromir said.

"Only if they're made by your son, Ori." Laedren's voice was proud.

Boromir gave Daeron's shoulders a gentle squeeze and released him. Then he took Laedren's right arm and closely examined the bracer. The burnished black leather gleamed in the many lights of the Hall, the mithril leaf of Laedren's crossed rose branch and sword and the White Tree above them glittering brightly.

"Jorell will have took look to his laurels, I think," Boromir said, releasing Laedren's arm.

"Jorell taught me how to finish them, my Lord," Daeron interjected. "I have a lot more to learn before I'll be anywhere as good as he is."

Boromir chuckled. "Everyone has a lot more to learn before they could be as good as Jorell is. We're lucky to have him. That reminds me, I need to check and see whether he's done replacing the flaps on Gyldenlác's field saddle."

"That can wait till next week, Boromir. Let the man have some time off. The last thing I need is him deciding it would be more salutarious for his health to relocate to Rohan or Dol Amroth." Denethor had strolled up with Lady Meriel on his arm. "I ought to make you find his replacement if you chase him off."

"Well, if he does leave, I have his replacement right here. Daeron made the bracers you were commenting on at dinner," Boromir retorted.

Denethor raised an eyebrow and turned towards Daeron's mother. "Is there anything this son of yours can't do, my lady?"

"I fear his Quenya is lacking, my Lord." Lady Meriel winked at her son, whose struggles with the complex language could sometimes be heard throughout the house. "But as it seems that is a skill it does not appear he'll need as an officer of the Guard, such a lack is of little import."

"I'll agree with that," Boromir said before Daeron had the chance to feel embarrassed. "I get a headache just _thinking_ about the damned language. I leave that to Loremasters, scholars, and people like my esteemed brother who seem to find it fun to wrestle with inflections and cases. Speaking of which, where _is_ Faramir? I need a word or three with him. Ah, _there_ he is!" Boromir smiled at Daeron, squeezed his shoulder again, and headed across the room towards his brother.

"I also must depart your charming company, Lady Meriel. Chancellor Orthmann is headed this way and I have no wish to discuss matters of state in the presence of a lady. Lord Laedren, attend on me at Council in three days time." Denethor placed Lady Meriel's hand on her husband's arm and nodded towards Daeron before turning in a sweep of elegant robes to intercept the Chancellor.

Shortly thereafter, Laedren bade the family's farewells and they made their way down to the Sixth Circle under a cloudless star-filled sky. The cold air was refreshing after the warmth and stuffiness of the Hall and Daeron followed his parents in a happily bemused state of mind. He hadn't offended anyone, much less the Steward, he hadn't made a fool out of himself, and hardest to believe but best of all, Lord Boromir had complimented him.

Later, he stretched out in his bed, his Court clothes safely put away, and reviewed the day. It hadn't been like the other Yule Eves he'd experienced as a child, but since it seemed he wasn't going to be a child for much longer he rather thought he preferred the way this one had turned out.

For once, he'd not been hurt or in trouble when he encountered Lord Boromir. It even sounded as though he'd impressed the Steward's Heir a little bit. And hearing Boromir express a matching opinion in regards to learning Quenya didn't hurt at all.

Tomorrow was going to be full of visiting cousins and other family members and he might possibly manage an escape from them for a few hours on Ruinanor.

He yawned and let sleep overtake him. Just wait until he told Halmir…

_Finis.

* * *

_

_Author's Notes: This "chapter" ended up about twice as long as I intended but Daeron wouldn't shut up (neither would Laedren, but Lady Meriel was much more polite about sticking to the essentials). I hope the Boromir lovers got enough of our favorite Steward's Heir to keep them happy._

_Regarding the Horses Names: The names are all from the Sindarin. Dae Shadow. Ruinanor Red Sun. Bréthil Birch. Gyldenlác Golden Gift. Wilwarin Butterfly_

_Regarding leatherworking: I want to thank my apprentice brother Eoin Drake in the Society for Creative Anachronism for advice on leatherworking and tooling. Jorell is loosely based on him. The technique of metal leafing that Jorell teaches Daeron is pretty accurate. The length of time you need to wait before applying the leaf (in our world it's usually gold as mithril is unavailable – a possible substitute for mithril could be palladium but it is horrendously expensive and difficult to find) and burnishing it depends on the adhesive you use._

_Regarding heraldry: A cadency mark is a symbol overlaid on a father's heraldic device to show what the birth rank of the son is. In England, the eldest son and heir bears his father's device with a cadency mark called a label—a horizontal stripe with three or five tabs depending from it, something like _TTT. _You can find a picture of Laedren's and Daeron's heraldic devices at my web page (such that it is):_http/home. riding: For those who don't ride, serpentines are an exercise where the rider crosses back and forth across the ring rounding the turn to go the other way by bending the horse around their inside leg. When I started dressage training while I was stationed in England, I did more serpentines than I care to remember, all without the benefit of reins or stirrups. I did a lot of things without reins or stirrups, actually. It certainly helps you develop good balance!

_Thank you for your patience. The next Chapter to be posted will be "Rest and Recovery" following up the events from "War Games"._


	4. Recovery Part One

_Author's Note: This is an immediate chronological follow on from "War Games" (Chapter Two) where Daeron was a "prisoner of war" after being captured during the Gondorian version of SERE training. For those interested in my personal image of Boromir: he looks and sounds like Sean Bean from Peter Jackson's films, but has the black hair from the books._

_Dedicated to my friends in the armed services with love and respect. You know who you are._

_**WARNING:** The following chapter contains relatively graphic descriptions of nightmares suffered by an individual suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a prisoner of war. The nightmare sequences will be readily identifiable so those who choose not to read them can skip to the next part of the narrative. I didn't put these in the story just to be graphic, there is a plot-driven purpose for their presence._

* * *

**Through Daeron's Eyes: Recovery – Part One**

_By Dancingkatz_

T.A. 3013 - November

The surgeon's declaration that he'd be returning Daeron to duty in the morning was forgotten as soon as he'd made his morning rounds. The horseplay that had led to the comment had torn the stitches closing a gash in the cadet's shoulder and there were already signs of infection appearing.

Daeron was silent through the cleaning, re-stitching, and dressing of the wound. He should probably be regretting the ill-advised tackle of his friend Grethen, but it had felt good to do something like roughhousing with his fellow cadets. It felt _normal_. He probably should have told the surgeon the night before that the stitches had torn but he'd been reluctant to do so since it would just bring the events that led to the wound to the front of his mind again.

In all honesty, he was having trouble thinking about the three days he'd been in the hands of the "enemy" with any sort of equanimity. The problem was that the memories intruded constantly. Sleep was nearly impossible without one of the surgeon's draughts because it seemed as soon as he closed his eyes, he was back in the enemy camp at the mercy of his captors.

He'd wanted to pretend that it hadn't happened when Halmir, Grethen, and Val visited him; that his injuries were due to something as relatively innocuous as falling from a rain-slick trail down a ravine as Halmir had done five days ago. He'd changed the subject purposefully so he wouldn't have to tell his friends what had actually been done to him… by others in the Gondorian army.

His brain understood that it was all in the name of training. He was perfectly aware that a war was coming. He hadn't grown up the son of Lord Laedren, Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and Aide to Captain-General Boromir for nothing. Men were captured in wartime, and the Enemy and his allies had no compunction about using torture in order to get current military intelligence. But behind the intellectual acceptance of the necessity for such training, his emotions insisted that he'd been betrayed.

_Why_ had the commandant waited three days before sending in the other cadets to rescue the captives? Surely, the lesson about what a soldier could face in an enemy's hands had been demonstrated well before the end of the first day of his captivity? The memories overwhelmed him again…

"_Cadet!" _

Daeron jumped and blinked at the sharp-voiced word and looked up, disoriented. The surgeon was offering a horn cup of what looked like the same vile brew as he had been given the day of the debriefing. He took the cup in a trembling hand and choked the contents down. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Lie down, Cadet, and let that do its work. You'll be going back to Minas Tirith in one of the carts."

"Yes, sir." Lying down seemed like a very good idea all of a sudden. He settled on his side and stared at the tent wall, afraid to close his eyes, not trusting the draught to keep the nightmares away. Eventually, however, he slipped into a fevered sleep.

* * *

He woke up to find himself strapped face down on a stretcher in the back of a wagon. Half asleep and not quite free of the dream he'd been caught in, he thought he was back in the hands of his captors. His panicked shouts and struggles brought the corpsman to his side and roused the other injured cadets who shared the wagon. 

"Daeron! It's all right!" Halmir had the stretcher opposite him and was practically falling off it while reaching out to reassure his friend. "Oh, gods! Daeron, _listen to me_!"

Blood was seeping through the bandages on Daeron's back and shoulder and it seemed that he didn't know that Halmir was there.

The corpsman unfastened the straps holding Daeron to the stretcher and rolled him onto his side. As Halmir grabbed and held one of Daeron's flailing hands the corpsman bit the top off of an ampoule and thrust it between Daeron's teeth. The terrified cadet choked on the dose and swallowed it. Within minutes he was unconscious.

When he next awoke, he felt a familiar hand carding his hair and heard Halmir singing a ballad about the Lord of Lossarnach's daughter and the Ranger of Ithilien. He could hear the sound of rain falling on the tarpaulin above their heads over the words of the song. Daeron was still groggy from the sedative and it took some minutes before he realized his head was pillowed not on his cloak but on someone's thigh. Instead of the rough canvas of the stretcher, he could feel the softness of brushed doeskin against his chest.

He tried to push himself upright and the singing stopped. "Shhh. Stay where you are, Daeron. I've got you." Halmir was sitting with his back against the side of the wagon and his injured leg propped up on the empty stretcher opposite, and was holding Daeron in place as the wagon jolted over the rutted roadway. Rather than have a repeat of the incident when Daeron had emerged from the sedative the first time Halmir had insisted on holding his friend in place instead. His ankle was giving him hell, but he could live with it if it kept Daeron calm and still.

"S-s-sorry." Daeron found it was difficult to speak, or to even put two thoughts together. He vaguely recalled a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare because Halmir hadn't been there when his captors had held him down and applied the hot iron to his back…

"What for?" Halmir's voice was curious above him. "You didn't try to deck me when you woke up and you didn't steal my rations."

Daeron sighed, closing his eyes against the re-emerging pain as the draught wore off. "They didn't hurt you... thank the gods…"

"Daeron? You're not making any sense. What are you…?" Halmir didn't complete the sentence because the corpsman came back wanting to give Daeron another dose of the sedative.

Halmir grabbed the corpsman's wrist with his right hand preventing the man from giving Daeron the sedative. "No! He doesn't need that. He needs water and food."

"My orders are to keep him sedated, cadet. Let go of me or you'll be facing a courts martial for assault," the corpsman growled.

Halmir tightened his grip on the corpsman's arm. "If you don't want a broken wrist, you'll put that away and bring him some water. He hasn't had any since before we left the camp this morning." He kept up the pressure and the ampoule dropped from the corpsman's suddenly nerveless fingers. "I'm an archer, so don't think that I can't do it."

"All right, he'll get his water and rations and I won't give him the sedative until after he eats. But I'm reporting you to the commandant when we get to Minas Tirith," the corpsman conceded and rubbed his wrist when Halmir released it.

"Fine. Go ahead. But you're not going to neglect my squad mate." Halmir watched as the corpsman returned to the front of the wagon and rummaged in the boot that was directly behind the driver's bench. Once he was sure the corpsman was going to do as he said, Halmir turned his attention to Daeron and getting him upright enough to eat. "Daer, you're going to have to help me. I need you to roll onto your side. You need to sit up."

"I'll try…" Daeron answered and bit back a cry as he moved. The analgesic effect of the previous dose of sedative had most definitely worn off. The other four cadets, who had been Daeron's fellow prisoners and who shared the wagon with them, watched and whispered to each other but made no attempt to assist. Finally, Daeron was leaning against Halmir's chest shuddering and gasping from pain.

The corpsman returned at that point with a water skin and some strips of dried meat. Halmir held the skin and Daeron gratefully swallowed. He was so thirsty that he could have gulped the entire contents at once but Halmir cautioned him to drink slowly. "Don't rush. If you choke I can't knock the water out of your lungs."

Halmir set the water skin to one side and offered Daeron a piece of the dried meat which was refused. At which point the corpsman picked up the ampoule of sedative and opened it. Halmir took it and put it to Daeron's lips. "Drink this, it should help. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Daeron choked on the bitter draught but managed to get it down. Almost immediately his eyes closed and he slumped in Halmir's arms. The corpsman was about to take the water skin but Halmir stopped him with an icy glare. "Leave it. And get another blanket for him."

The corpsman did so and retreated to the driver's box, staying out of sight until the wagon stopped moving about an hour before dusk. Daeron had remained asleep but moaned and cried out periodically from nightmares.

Halmir's throat was sore from talking and singing to his friend in an attempt to calm him. He'd managed to get some more water into Daeron but he knew it wasn't enough. He caught the attention of one of the other cadets--this one with his left arm in a sling and still carrying some bruises and a split lip on his face--as he sidled by to get to the tailgate of the wagon. "You. You're Gharal, right?"

The boy looked wary but answered. "Yes."

"Find the surgeon and ask him to come here, and send someone with some real food and more water."

"Why? He didn't go through anything the rest of us didn't," Gharal asked, in a belligerent tone. "He's just malingering."

"Malingering?" Halmir hissed. _I'm sorry about this, Daeron_. "Have you any idea what they did to him?" He pulled the blanket from around Daeron's torso and turned him so the other cadet could see the damage to Daeron's back and shoulders. Daeron moaned and rolled his head in protest. "And that's not the half of it. Do you still think he's _malingering_?"

Gharal had gone white in shock. "N-n-no. I didn't know. We didn't…"

"So, go get the surgeon!" Halmir snapped.

Gharal left the wagon, looking positively sick. Halmir sighed and closed his eyes wearily. His ankle felt like it was on fire and he was hungry and thirsty himself. But he wasn't going to leave Daeron alone. "I should have been there when they captured you instead of miles away with a broken ankle. I'm not leaving you alone now."

He opened his eyes and looked up when he heard a noise at the tailgate of the wagon. It was the surgeon and Gharal. The cadet held a lantern which he hung on the tarpaulin support above Halmir's head. The other three cadets were gathered at the back of the wagon looking in worriedly.

Halmir found himself evicted from Daeron's stretcher and back on his own, his leg elevated, having been ordered to stay put. Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back then seemed to come to a decision. He slipped to the tailgate and whispered something to the other cadets. They scattered and he returned to Halmir.

"I sent the others for the food," he said quietly. "You need to eat, too. Don't argue with me. I saw you today. You haven't had more than a mouthful of that dried meat."

"I'll eat after Daeron eats and not before." Halmir had his eyes on the surgeon who was bent over Daeron looking grim.

Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back. "I'll make sure he eats, I promise. You need to eat and sleep. Look, let me take care of Daeron tonight. I can sleep tomorrow while you watch him during the day. I promise I won't let that _turd_ of a corpsman near him." He paused. "Halmir, I _need_ to do this."

"All right," Halmir finally allowed. "Don't let them strap him down, no matter what!"

The other cadets had returned with bowls of stew, fruit and bread—miraculously not stale—along with fresh water. Halmir ate, and after a warning look at Gharal, succumbed to sleep.

Daeron roused, coughing, as the surgeon passed the smelling salts under his nose.

"That's it. Wake up, lad." The surgeon put the smelling salts back in his case and took Daeron's pulse again. "You have to eat. Afterwards I'll have someone get you cleaned up and more comfortable." He looked carefully into Daeron's face for a moment and then left.

Within minutes Daeron was propped up and Gharal was feeding him the stew. Pain had diminished his appetite and after only a few mouthfuls he refused to take any more. Before Gharal could remonstrate with him, they were interrupted by an argument at the back of the wagon.

"You are _all_ on report for insubordination!"

Halmir stirred slightly at the sound of the corpsman ranting at his erstwhile patients but didn't wake. Gharal carefully lowered Daeron to the stretcher and went to see what was going on. "I'll be right back."

The other three cadets had arrayed themselves so as to block the corpsman's access to the wagon, looking stubborn and likely to resort to laying hands on the belligerent sergeant.

"What do you want, sergeant?" Gharal asked, trying to imitate the tone that Lt. Bedreth used when making inquiries into some misbehavior.

"The corpsman glared at Gharal but answered, "I'm to clean up your misbegotten comrade, not that I want to."

"If you're referring to _Lord_ _Laedren's_ _heir_, sergeant, you're not going to touch him. Hand up those things and _we'll_ take care of our comrade." Gharal maintained his frown until the sergeant handed over the basket and stomped off.

Daeron managed a weak grin when Gharal returned to his side. "You sounded just like the Lieutenant. Are you after his job?"

"No, I'd have to deal with vermin like that corpsman too much. Lazy bastard. If he had his way he'd drug us so that none of us were awake until a week after we get back to Minas Tirith." Gharal lifted Daeron upright and draped the other cadet's right arm over his shoulder. "Sorry if I hurt you. I think you probably need the necessary after drinking all that water…"

It was embarrassing, but Gharal was tactful and spent the minutes he supported Daeron describing just where he'd like to assign the corpsman and to which miserable duties.

When Daeron was returned to the stretcher he found that the other cadets had been busy. The canvas was covered with blankets and fire-warmed stones had been tucked into them to warm them. A bucket of hot water had appeared along with a couple of flour sacking towels.

After Gharal had cleaned him up Daeron refused to take the sedative that had been in the basket turned over to Gharal by the corpsman. "Gives me nightmares…" he mumbled, turning his face into his folded cloak. "I'd rather hurt."

Gharal tucked the ampoule into his tunic pocket and seated himself on the floor between Halmir and Daeron's stretchers. "Well, if it gets too bad, let me know." He was silent for a few minutes. "Daeron, I want to apologize."

"For what? Saving me from that corpsman? I owe you thanks for that."

Gharal dismissed his thanks with a wave of his hand. "You'd have done it for me or any of the others. No, we should have thought about what you had to have gone through and not let him strap you down. You didn't break and you paid for it. A lot more than I did. I didn't last more than a few hours…" Deep shame coloured the cadet's voice.

"Gharal, it wasn't… I _did_ break… I answered their questions…" Daeron was distressed more by the way his companion looked and sounded than he was by his own lingering pain and weakness. "Please, don't talk like that." He reached over and touched Gharal's hand, then when it wasn't pulled away grasped it.

"Daeron, you held out _three whole days_! We should have been able to do it as well!"

Daeron squeezed Gharal's hand harder. "_Don't say that_! Do you want to know what my father said when he visited me at the camp afterwards? He said that every man's breaking point is different and that _everyone_ breaks! _Everyone_!"

Halmir roused at the agitated sound in Daeron's voice. "Daer? You all right?"

"I'm OK. Go back to sleep. Gharal and I are just having a discussion." Daeron waited until Halmir had subsided back to his blankets before turning his attention back to Gharal. "Gharal--"

"I still need to apologize to you. All of us do. We thought you were malingering. Then Halmir showed me what they did to you. I…" Gharal swallowed hard. "No wonder they carried you to the wagon this morning."

"It was that or drag me. I tore the stitches in my shoulder open and the surgeon knocked me out with some gods awful tasting stuff. Gharal, I'm _glad_ you gave in so fast. I wouldn't want _anyone_ to feel the way I do right now."

Gharal didn't respond but just looked miserable.

"Can I tell you a secret, Gharal?" Daeron asked after few minutes of thought.

Interest piqued, Gharal looked up. "A secret? What…"

"Lord Boromir was with my father when he visited. He told me he only lasted _one day_ when it happened to him in training."

"_What_? But he's…" Gharal looked completely gobsmacked. "He's…"

Daeron laughed and regretted it as his back and chest muscles spasmed again. Gasping, he managed to add, "That was my reaction, too," before squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth. _Gods! Can't I do anything _normal_ without…_

Gharal forgot about his shame and scrambled to his feet. Raising the tarpaulin he called for one of the other cadets, who had set up bedrolls around a small fire, to find the surgeon.

The surgeon wasn't pleased to find that Daeron had refused the sedative, until Gharal handed him the ampoule. "He says it gives him nightmares."

"This isn't what I prescribed for him—who in the gods names—never mind. Get me a cup of hot water." The surgeon opened his case and withdrew a small packet. When Gharal brought back the water, the contents were dropped into the cup and thoroughly mixed.

Daeron groaned as he was lifted and turned onto his side. "Please…_oh, gods!_…"

"Drink this," the surgeon ordered holding the cup to his lips. "All of it."

Daeron obeyed and was surprised to find the draught wasn't bitter. It was most certainly effective, the pain melted away without the horrible disorienting feeling that had accompanied the sedative.

The surgeon nodded as Daeron's colour improved and his pulse and breathing normalised. "That's more like it. I'll be back to check on you later." He looked over Gharal and Halmir before leaving the wagon. Daeron heard him stop and talk to the other cadets who were camped outside the wagon but couldn't make out what was being said.

Gharal took his previous seat between Daeron and Halmir. "Feel up to talking some more or do you want to sleep?"

Daeron sighed as he lay his head back down. "Talk. I've done more than enough sleeping today."

"Me, too." Gharal readjusted his sling and shifted so he was leaning against the side of Halmir's stretcher. "I feel like such a failure. I've been thinking that I when we get back I ought to resign from the Academy. How can I expect that anyone would follow my orders? How can anyone _trust_ me? Everyone knows I was the first of us to give in." His voice was as bleak as his expression in the lamplight. "It didn't take that much, just being punched and kicked a few times and having my arm twisted out of its socket, and I was babbling. Who wants that kind of soldier under his command? And no soldier in his right mind wants to be under the orders of someone like that."

Daeron was surprised to hear that the other cadet was having a lot of the same thoughts he was. While lying awake the night before after tearing open the stitches in his shoulder, he'd considered the very same thing. The problem was he had no idea what he would do with his life if he wasn't a soldier. It had been the only career he'd ever considered.

"What would you do if you weren't a soldier?" he asked when it became obvious that Gharal wasn't going to continue.

"I don't know. I could always apprentice under one of my uncles, I guess. Become an armourer, maybe." He grinned crookedly at Daeron. "Or maybe not."

Daeron bit back a laugh. It was a standing joke in the Academy barracks that Gharal always had to have someone else handle the minor repairs on his armour because he was truly hopeless at it.

"I think you should stick to doing something you're actually good at," he said. "Like running through orcs with that sword you got for your fifteenth birthday. Honestly, I'd be glad to have you under my command, assuming I ever earn one."

"B-b-but!…" Gharal sputtered, looking at Daeron with disbelief.

Daeron was serious about it. "So you broke down under torture. And don't tell me they 'only beat you up a little bit' I can tell they did more than that even when I'm doped to the eyeballs with that damned sedative. You lived to fight another day, right?"

"Well, yeah. But…" Gharal was still trying to deal with the idea that Daeron would want him under his command.

"But nothing. I'd prefer to work a man who knows he isn't invulnerable and takes appropriate precautions with his men than some jerk that thinks he's invincible and charges in recklessly. He's going to get himself in trouble and take my men with him. You might still charge in, but now you'd at least _think_ about it first." _Where am I getting this from? I sound like…_

"You sound like your father," Gharal said, as if reading Daeron's mind. "Did you know he made sure to talk to all of us before he and Lord Boromir left?"

"He did? That's good." Daeron's thoughts drifted off to his final conversation with Lord Laedren before his father left to accompany Lord Boromir to inspect the garrison at Cair Andros.

* * *

_Laedren ducked through the half closed flap of the surgeon's tent and looked own at his sleeping son. The Captain was back in full uniform, his sword at his side and his helm under his arm._

_Daeron stirred and opened his eyes when Laedren ran his gauntleted hand through his son's hair. "What…"_

"_I'm leaving in a few minutes, Daeron. I wanted to make sure you remembered what we talked about last night and to tell you goodbye." Laedren had knelt next to the cot so he could look into Daeron's eyes. "You did very well; better than anyone had any right to expect. You have _nothing _to be ashamed of."_

_Daeron bit his lip and refused to meet his father's eyes. There was a part of him that believed the words that his father and the Captain-General said to him the night before were just polite lies to make him feel better._

"_Look, I've got three things I want you to think about, then I have to go. First, would you want to have a man who knows his limits under your command or one that thinks he can stand anything anyone throws at him? I can tell you from experience that the latter usually does more damage to his own unit than any enemy he comes up against, by charging in where the Valar fear to tread. He also loses good men who otherwise would have survived and gone home to their wives and children." _

_He paused and continued running his fingers through Daeron's hair, waiting while his son tried to absorb his words._

_He continued when Daeron finally looked up into his eyes. "Second, you've been through a lot of trauma in a very short time. You're not going to get over it in just a day or two. I don't expect you to do so and neither will any commander worth his salt. I won't lie, you've got weeks, maybe months of recovery to work through. I'll support you, so will your friends, but you are going to have to do the work to get back to where you were before you were captured. I do, however, expect you to be honest with yourself and others about your readiness to return to active duty. Remember that what you do has an effect on your fellows."_

_Daeron nodded then winced as pain shot up his neck and pounded behind his eyes. _That was a mistake_. "I understand…"_

_Laedren smiled and continued. "Lastly, don't make any hasty decisions right now… about anything. The results of any decision made while in pain or under stress seem to be exponentially more negative the worse you feel when you make them. If you feel overwhelmed ask for help. Talk to someone you trust and get their opinion _before_ you make an irrevocable decision." He leaned forward and kissed Daeron's forehead. "You have my blessing and I'll be thinking about you. I am not ashamed of you. Rather I am very proud. Remember that."_

_Brushing his fingers through Daeron's hair one last time, he rose and turned to go. _

_Boromir stood just inside the doorway, waiting for his aide. "Ready?"_

_Laedren nodded and crossed to the doorway. Boromir looked over at Daeron and paused. "Meet me with the horses. I'll be there in a minute." Laedren took a last look at his son, raised the tent flap, and left._

_Boromir knelt in the same place Laedren had just vacated. "Daeron, I told you that you were brave back when you were only eight years old. Trust that bravery. You've got a rough road ahead of you, but you'll make it through. You've got a courageous heart. Just listen to it."_

"_Yes, sir. Thank you, my Lord," Daeron managed to choke out, overwhelmed that the Steward's son would say such a thing to him._

"_I'd better get going before Gyldenlác decides that your father's feet are fair game to be stepped on." Daeron couldn't help a grin at the mention of Boromir's irrepressible Rohirrim stallion. _

_Boromir stood and placed his hand on Daeron's head in blessing. "I promise I'll bring your father back safely."_

"_Thank you, my Lord." Daeron watched as Boromir left and stared at the door flap in silence thinking about his father's and Lord Boromir's words._

* * *

"Daeron?" 

He blinked and looked at Gharal who was looking at him, concern written on his face. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something my father said."

Gharal reached for the water skin and sat on the edge of the stretcher, gently rolling Daeron to his side. "Here. You're sweating again. Do you need…"

Daeron cut him off. "No, I don't hurt right now. You should get some sleep. I'll be all right."

Gharal held the water skin to Daeron's lips and waited while he drank. "As I told Halmir, I can sleep tomorrow. You, however, should sleep. I'll be right here if you need anything."

Daeron settled back on his stomach and watched as Gharal set the water skin aside and turned down the flame on the lamp before settling back to his previous position. He didn't want to sleep. Every time he did he was tormented by nightmares where the information he gave the enemy caused the deaths of his parents, his friends, and everyone he held dear. He couldn't bear closing his eyes and seeing his beautiful mother cut to pieces in her garden or his tall and handsome father trapped and run through by spear after spear until he fell. He didn't want to hear their screams echoing in his ears.

Gharal seemed to have his own demons and Daeron would right now much rather help him than face them than to deal with his own. He reached out with his right arm and laid his hand on Gharal's arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really."

"All right." Daeron gave Gharal's arm a gentle squeeze, careful to avoid the bruises. "I'll be here if you need anything."

The two young men sat in the near darkness of the wagon in silence, listening to the sounds of the camp until at last Daeron's eyes, at least, drooped shut of their own accord.

They arrived at the Main Gates of Minas Tirith at midafternoon on the fourth day after leaving the training camp. Daeron hadn't been left alone once. The other three cadets had each taken a turn sitting up with him at night while Halmir slept. The surgeon had replaced the original corpsman with another, older man who seemed to know just when to intervene when pain, stress, and tempers got to be too much for the six young men. Free from the nightmare-aggravating sedative, Daeron didn't get as much sleep but what rest he did get was actually effective.

Halmir had spent the remaining days sitting on the end of the stretcher and holding Daeron as the wagon jolted its way down the rutted roadway, talking and singing to Daeron when he was awake, and stroking his head when he drowsed off. He and the other four had developed a routine so that when they stopped to rest the horses or to camp for the night, one of them could stay with Daeron while the others saw to making a fire, getting dinner, and heating rocks so that none of them slept cold. By the time the City came into sight, the young men had developed a camaraderie that was well nigh unbreakable.

Daeron had fallen asleep shortly after the wagon started moving after the noon rest stop. Gharal and the others had, with the assistance of the grizzle-haired corpsman, rolled up the canvas sides of the tarpaulin to take advantage of heat and light of the late autumn sun.

Halmir gently shook Daeron's good shoulder as they approached the Gates. "Daeron, wake up. We're almost home."

Daeron roused and muttered something under his breath. The pain killer was beginning to wear off and he felt the miserable sickness that told him he was becoming feverish again. Even so he couldn't help feeling his heart lift as the wagon passed under the arch and into the First Circle. Halmir had begun a softly spoken monologue describing what he could see from over the side of the wagon.

"We're in the First Circle, Daer, and almost to the next gate. Remember when you got me out of that well when we were ten years old and exploring? We just passed the tanner's yard where it happened. Why is it that I always seem to end up with broken bones when we go exploring?"

"Don't…know…," Daeron answered through his increasing misery. "Maybe you're lucky…."

"Right. And you're the King of Rohan's consort. I think it's all a plot, personally." Halmir teased. He felt sweat breaking out on Daeron's forehead again and frowned. He continued speaking in a light voice, hoping to keep Daeron distracted. "We're almost there. We just passed Arlin's shop. Speaking of which, you owe me a new pair of gloves."

"No, I don't… It's not my fault that you just… tucked them into your belt, instead of wearing them… Should I have spent two hours… looking for them after you… fell into that ravine… instead of getting you… back to camp?"

"Well, I suppose you made the right choice. But they _were_ my favourite gloves."

Daeron didn't get a chance to reply because the wagon had finally reached the Academy compound in the Sixth Circle.

The staff of the Academy infirmary efficiently unloaded the injured and checked them over. After a cursory look at the splint on Halmir's leg the Academy's surgeon signed him onto convalescent leave, and sent him to his parents' home until the bones in his ankle finished knitting.

The surgeon sorted out the remaining more or less ambulatory patients before turning to deal with Daeron, only to find that Halmir, Gharal and the other three cadets had gathered round Daeron's stretcher.

He frowned irritably at them and told them to follow their orders and get themselves off to their respective billets.

Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and sent the other three off to the barracks. "We'll let you know where Daeron is," Halmir promised, then turned back towards the surgeon. "We'll go once we know where you're sending Daeron, sir."

"Insubordinate…" The surgeon glared at the two cadets and finally conceded when neither of them would back down. "Fine! Move back over to that bench and stay out of the way." Once Gharal had assisted Halmir to hobble on his crutches from the stretcher, he knelt down and pulled the blanket off Daeron, who was now shivering with fever and rigid from pain.

"What in…" The surgeon bit off a curse and proceeded to examine Daeron, cataloguing the litany of injuries and looking grimmer and grimmer. When he finished, he draped the blanket over the youth and ordered two corpsmen to take him directly to the Houses of Healing. The Academy infirmary was set up for dealing with general training injuries such as broken bones, simple cuts and strained muscles, not this kind of trauma.

Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and began to follow the corpsmen, only to be restrained by the surgeon. "No. You won't be able to see him until tomorrow at the earliest, and maybe not even then. I applaud your loyalty, but you are both under orders." He glanced to the side. "Corpsman! Escort Cadet Halmir and Cadet Gharal to their homes."

* * *

Daeron was only partly aware of the argument going on over his head between Adoan, the Healer who had been assigned to his case, and the officer from the Academy who had arrived just as he'd been dosed with something for the pain, and at this point just relished the fact that he didn't feel much of anything at all. It was bliss just to be lying on something that wasn't made of rough canvas and wasn't jolting him until he thought his teeth would shatter. 

"I cannot tell you when the boy will be fit to return to duty, Lieutenant Kergil," Healer Adoan snapped. "He's been in my hands less than fifteen minutes. It obviously took far longer than that to put him in this condition! You'll get a report in the morning. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a patient to tend!"

Daeron stirred at the sound of the Lieutenant's name. _Kergil? He was back in the City? Did that mean Grethen and Val were back, too?_

The Healer frowned after the departing officer for a moment then turned his attention back to Daeron. The cadet was spiking a fever again and most of his wounds, including several burns, were obviously infected. He told his assistant to give Daeron a sedative, washed his hands, and reached for a scalpel. At the least those stitches would have to come out. He waited until the boy's breathing had slowed and the fist that had clenched around a handful of linen sheet had relaxed, then bent to his work.

Daeron spent most of the next two days either unconscious or wishing he was, as Adoan worked to repair the damages inflicted by Lt. Kergil's enemy troops when he'd been captured during the training exercise. The stress of the four day trip back to the City had only exacerbated the situation and his body was slow to physically heal.

When he developed pneumonia at the end of the week his mother, the Lady Meriel, went to the Steward himself to request the immediate return of her husband from Cair Andros. Daeron wasn't in any state to appreciate it but when she had been told that her son had been injured in the field and seen the extent of those injuries, she had been beside herself with outrage and had let the Commandant of the Academy know of it in no uncertain terms.

To the worry of Halmir and Gharal, and also Grethen and Val, who had returned with the remaining cadets from the field exercise four days later, Daeron wasn't permitted visitors. After tripping over them in the corridor outside Daeron's room for the third time in one morning, Adoan evicted them from the premises of the Houses of Healing. "I promise you will be notified when Daeron can have visitors but until then I don't want to see hide nor hair of any of you."

The four cadets left reluctantly and didn't see Lt. Kergil receive the same response from the Healer.

Daeron was drowning again…choking…unable to breathe. Delirious from the recurring fever, he believed he was back in the hands of his captors being held down in icy water. He coughed, gasping for air, and struggled in the hands that held him.

_No...no...no...Oh, gods! Let me up! I can't...I can't...please...No more...please...I'll talk...I'll tell you everything...just let me_ breathe!

Adoan poured another dose of the tincture down Daeron's throat. He was running out of options for treating the youth. When he finally got the whole story of the ordeal the cadet had suffered from the Academy surgeon who'd tended him in the field, the Healer was more than ready to abandon his oath to do no harm and inflict some serious damage to those responsible for the boy's condition. If that damned Lieutenant showed his face again Adoan wasn't going to be responsible for his actions.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal one of the Healer apprentices with a covered tray followed by the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Adoan was relieved to see his superior. The situation was reaching a crisis and he wouldn't give odds in either direction concerning Daeron's survival at this point.

Daeron moaned again but his attempts to struggle had grown progressively weaker and his lips had an unwelcome bluish tinge. The Warden made his own examination and glanced at the covered tray before meeting Adoan's eyes.

The only option left was to try to drain the fluid from Daeron's lungs, a procedure that, while mentioned in several ancient Numenorian texts, was seldom done because of the risks.

Adoan closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead. Nothing else had worked. The boy was already dying by inches. "Are his parents here?"

"Lady Meriel awaits outside the door. Lord Laedren has been summoned from Cair Andros. The Steward's courier left yesterday morning. I will..."

"No, sir," the younger man said, "He's my patient. I should talk to his mother. If his father isn't here in a quarter of an hour..." Adoan would honestly have liked to have turned this duty over to his superior but he'd never yet handed off responsibility for a patient, and he wasn't going to start now. _Gods, the boy was the woman's only child..._

As Adoan stepped through the door, Lord Laedren arrived, his uniform mud-spattered and wet, worry writ large upon his face. Lady Meriel rose from the bench where she had held vigil, torn between going to her husband and wanting to know what the Healer had to say. Laedren ended her dilemma by putting his arm around her and turning to Adoan. "My son?..."

Adoan wished he had good news and could remove the fear that resided in the Captain's gray-green eyes. "A crisis is approaching. We've been unable to stop the build up of fluid in Daeron's lungs. There is one last procedure we can do that might turn things around but it is very risky. Unfortunately, at this point it appears to offer the only chance for his survival."

Lady Meriel paled, and stricken, she buried her face against her husband's shoulder, clutching his cloak as she wept. Laedren raised his free hand to stroke her hair but kept his gaze on the healer. "What do you intend to do?"

Adoan explained the procedure: they would drain the fluid from Daeron's lungs by inserting tubes through his chest wall. If it worked he should recover quickly.

"And if it doesn't work, he'll die anyway." Laedren's voice was leaden with resignation. "Can we see him?"

"Yes. It will take a quarter hour to prepare him for the procedure. If you will go with Apprentice Erilan, she'll show you where you can clean up."

Laedren nodded, kissed his wife gently, and followed the apprentice down the hallway. Lady Meriel twisted her handkerchief in her hands and watched him out of sight before turning to Adoan. "Is there really a chance that this will work?"

"I've seen this work when everything else has failed, my Lady," he told her. "But I can make no guarantees. It would be wise to be prepared in case the gods decide to take your son through the veil tonight."

Adoan hated having to tell anyone those words but especially to a woman who looked to lose her only child. "I must return to Daeron. I'll open the door when you and your husband can see him."

He returned to the room to find that the Warden had already started preparing Daeron for the surgery. The smell of alcohol spirits filled the air of the small room and the lamps had been turned up to throw as bright a light as possible on the bed.

The fire in the stove that sat in the corner of the room had been stoked up and already a pan of water was beginning to boil. The apprentice moved about silently, setting out bandages, linen pads, and various other items that would be necessary. As the minutes passed Daeron's breathing grew more laboured.

When all was ready, Adoan opened the door and gestured for the couple to enter. He busied himself at the stove watching the instruments that were lying in the boiling water as they kissed their son and whispered to him. He gave them ten minutes then turned, catching Laedren's eye. The Captain whispered something in his wife's ear, placed his hand on Daeron's hair and bowed his head for a moment. He then led his weeping wife out to the hallway. Before the door closed behind them Adoan glimpsed the unmistakable form of Lord Boromir enfolding the two of them into an embrace.

The Warden entered the room through the second door that led to staff only area of the building, his official robes replaced by a plain tunic and apron. Adoan changed into a similar outfit and scrubbed his hands and arms before picking up the scalpel. He nodded to the apprentice who readied himself to hold Daeron still and made the initial incision.

An hour later Adoan checked Daeron's pulse and breathing and sighed with relief. As soon as the first tube had been placed a goodly amount of fluid had drained from Daeron's chest and his condition had started to improve. The blue tinge had left his lips and he was breathing more easily. The procedure appeared to have helped; now they needed to monitor the boy for infection and to make sure that his lungs didn't collapse. The apprentice carried out the hamper of bloodstained aprons and sheets while the Warden double checked the incision sites.

When the Healer stepped out into the hallway he found Lady Meriel sitting on the bench between her husband and Lord Boromir. Kneeling before her he took her hands and smiled gently. "Your son lives, my Lady. He's not out of the woods just yet, but he lives."

He looked up at Lord Laedren and wasn't surprised at the expression of naked relief on the man's face. However, Daeron's father was pale with exhaustion following the 65-mile ride from Cair Andros. "You can see Daeron tomorrow. I don't expect him to wake before midmorning. In the meantime, both of you should rest. I will send a messenger if there is any change." He placed Lady Meriel's hands in her husband's and rose to his feet.

Lord Boromir rose from the bench, placed his hand on Adoan's shoulder, and quietly said, "Thank you," before turning to Daeron's parents and gently steering them down the hallway.

Adoan returned to Daeron's room and took the chair which had been moved to sit near the head of the bed after checking Daeron's breathing again. So far so good. If the boy made it through the night he should make a full recovery.

* * *

Daeron woke up to the unfamiliar scent of alcohol spirits in his nose. He ached all over, an almost comforting feeling given his familiarity with it over the past number of days, but the crushing feeling in his chest was gone. He blinked in the dim lamplight and turned his head. It took a few moments for him to realize he was lying on his back, his torso propped up with pillows. Something soft cushioned his injured back and after a few more moments he identified it as a sheepskin. 

There was a rustling sound and the clink of metal somewhere to his right. Before he could try to look to see the source of the sound, a rugged-faced man in Healer's robes stepped into his line of sight, holding a pewter cup in his hand.

"If you're not thirsty, I'll be very surprised," he said in a gentle voice. "I'm Adoan." He held the cup to Daeron's lips. "Small sips only, lad."

When Daeron had finished the water, for he had been thirsty, Adoan smiled and turned away to place the cup on a table that was just out of Daeron's sight. The table held an emergency surgery kit and there was no point in upsetting the fragile young man with the sight of it.

Daeron found that his eyes wouldn't stay open. Just drinking the water had exhausted him. He felt gentle hands stroking his temples as he fell asleep again.

The scent of roses and sandalwood filled his nostrils when he roused next and the hand holding his was soft and familiar. "Mother…" He opened his eyes long enough to see her smiling through her tears then his body's exhaustion dragged him back into sleep. The next several days passed in the same manner. He woke for a few minutes then slept for hours. Gradually, he spent more time awake but as his body recovered his sleep was invaded once more by nightmares.

* * *

"Go away! I don't want you here!" 

Adoan frowned as he approached Daeron's room and heard the boy's angry outburst. This was the tenth time in three days that he'd raged at a visitor. Additionally, he'd become recaltricant about eating and following instructions in regards to his recovery. The outbursts would be followed by a disassociative withdrawal and the cycle would repeat. The boy had already run off his mother and best friend this morning. The healer opened the door and saw that Daeron had rolled onto his side and turned away from his father.

Laedren folded his arms across his chest. "What you want makes no difference, Daeron. You owe your mother a profound apology. Let me know when you're ready to give it and I'll bring her to see you." He looked down at the rigid figure on the bed and sighed before turning to meet Adoan's eyes. "May I have a moment of your time, Healer Adoan?"

"Certainly, my Lord. If you'll come to my office?" Adoan gestured towards the door and turned towards it.

Adoan's office was small, to all intents and purposes no more than a redecorated closet, but it was large enough to hold a desk, two mismatched chairs and an overflowing bookshelf. He offered Laedren the sturdier of the two seats and sat down in the other. "I am assuming you want to talk about Daeron's latest…shall we call it attitude?"

"Yes," Laedren paused as he gathered his thoughts together. He seemed to come to a decision then continued speaking. "What experience have you had with returning prisoners of war?"

"Some. Usually, I handle repairing the physical damage and immediately turn them back over to the army surgeons. But I've had a few patients like Daeron, whose recovery is taking a significant amount of time. I'm honestly not surprised that he's behaving this way." Adoan grimaced. "I have to admit though, that those patients were grown men, not adolescents."

"That does make things more difficult, does it not?" Laedren grinned for a moment before sobering. "Post-trauma stress isn't something they teach you about at the Academy, by the way, although I think they should. I had to learn about it the hard way. I trust you to do what you need to do to get Daeron through this. I'll back what ever you think is necessary."

"Thank you." Adoan was grateful to hear that. "Can you tell me what you believe he's thinking that's causing him to push everyone he cares about away? I have a suspicion, but as a soldier I think you can provide an expert opinion."

"I'll do my best. Ask away."

Alone in his room, Daeron was trying to keep hold of the detached, numb feeling he'd found after he blew up at his father but failing. He felt ashamed of himself, not only for the current incident but for sending his mother away in tears. The trouble was that as soon as he started feeling anything, the fear would come back; fear that was fed by far too vivid nightmares when he let himself sleep.

He'd had another nightmare last night when he finally succumbed to exhaustion.

* * *

_His captors had left him alone after he finally had broken and answered their questions. He'd lost track of time when he was hauled to his feet and dragged outside. He could smell crushed grass, burning wood, and the sickly-sour odor of blood over it all._

_Someone grabbed his jaw in their hand and hissed in his ear, "Such a good little soldier, to tell us _everything_." His jaw was released and the voice ordered the blindfold removed from the prisoner. "Let him see the results of his babbling."_

_The blindfold was pulled away and the first sight that met his eyes was the lurid light of fires burning throughout the City. He choked on the suddenly ash-filed, smoky air and fell to his knees as he saw the atrocities committed by his captor's men. The smell of blood and burning flesh sickened him. Then he screamed as he saw his mother's dead body dragged from the ruins of their house, her skin flayed and her bones shattered, her face a rictus of terror under a netting of bloody cuts._

_That wasn't the end of it. One by one, everyone he loved was paraded before him: his father, his Great-Uncle Forlong, his friends Halmir, Grethen, Val, and Gharal, all dead after suffering degradation and torture. Even Jorell, the Citadel's saddler, was dragged before him, his clever hands reduced to shreds of flesh over white bones. Only after they made him witness the hanging and quartering of the Steward and his family was he released from the hold of his guards. He fell face first to the ground, retching violently. He was pulled upright again and his captor turned his attention back to Daeron._

"_Such a good little _traitor_." The hissing voice said, the hand petting his head as if Daeron was a prized hound, then gripping the black locks to force him to look into the sightless eyes of Lord Boromir's corpse…_

* * *

The ugly dream had invaded his sleep the first night after being rescued and returned about a week after the surgery that saved his life. Each time he'd slept since then it had been repeated, growing more graphic and horrifying each time. 

He was exhausted but feared to sleep and refused to swallow the sedatives offered by Adoan. He was hungry but couldn't eat more than a mouthful of food without losing it shortly thereafter. He hurt and wanted the pain to go away but refused the pain medication because it seemed that the nightmares were worse after taking it. He hated being alone and wanted his family and friends nearby, yet he chased them away when they visited. He wanted to heal so he could return to the Academy and earn his commission but dreaded the thought of returning there at the same time.

He knew that Adoan would come in any minute with another dose to swallow or to ask questions that he couldn't—didn't want to—answer.I can't stay here. I just can't. I can't go home. I can't go back to the Academy…

In desperation, he rolled to lie on his back and started cataloguing the imperfections in the plaster ceiling of the room in yet another attempt to stop the panicked litany in his mind. _There, that's where I left off. There's a rust coloured spot next to the third beam that looks like a cat's paw. There's four cracks that spread out from it. The one to the right is spidery. It splits off like the five rivers of Lebennin…_

* * *

Adoan dropped the pen and grimaced as he shook a cramp out of his hand. "I should write a treatise on post-trauma recovery and give you credit for most of it, Laedren." 

Laedren shook his head. "No, all I did was give you my opinions based on my experience. What are we going to do about my son?"

"_I_ am going to move him out of that chamber and put him in one of the open wards with other recovering soldiers," Adoan answered. "Isolation was a good idea when he was dealing with the pneumonia, but it won't answer for dealing with what's going on in his mind. I think it's time that he'll has to deal with other people will he, nil he. _You_ are going to go home and reassure your lady wife that her son does still love her, in spite of the way he's been acting."

Laedren smiled crookedly. "I'll take that as a hint and leave you to your work. As I said before, if Daeron gives you any problem, do what you think necessary. Let me know about it afterwards if something has to be done on the spot."

"I will. Good day, my Lord."

* * *

Daeron's examination of the ceiling was interrupted by the arrival of Adoan and two apprentices carrying a stretcher. The Healer gave no explanations but told the apprentices to move Daeron to the stretcher and take him to the west wing's ground level ward. "I'll see you during my rounds later today, Daeron." 

Daeron's confusion was obvious, as was his discomfort when his healing back made contact with the canvas of the stretcher, but Adoan just observed in silence. Once Daeron was on his way to his new bed, Adoan summoned a page and sent him to deliver several messages. Then he took himself off to check on his other patients.

The ground level ward in the west wing of the houses of healing was one of several dedicated to the care of Gondor's soldiers who were injured on active duty. It was overseen by two Healers who had once been in the army themselves who ran the ward and it's patients under military discipline.

By the time Adoan arrived at Daeron's bedside later in the afternoon, the cadet was quiet and subdued, but wasn't in the near catatonic, disassociative state he'd been going into over the past few days. He was also lying on his stomach as the thick sheepskin hadn't transferred to the ward with him and the linen sheets scratched against his still unhealed cuts and burns.

It was the burns that had Adoan concerned now. They had been debrided when Daeron was first brought in but the procedure needed to be repeated, especially on Daeron's feet and lower legs, to prevent necrosis and further infection. He gave several quietly voiced orders and shortly, Daeron found himself the focus of two healers and three apprentices.

The following hour was harrowing, in spite of the pain deadening draught he'd been given, as the burns on his feet and back were alternately soaked in salt water and scraped clean. He'd been given a thick leather strap to bite down on but it hadn't muffled his groans and cries as the healers worked.

Screens had been put around his bed to provide a modicum of privacy but halfway through the procedure the one to the right of his bed was moved aside and the soldier who had the next bed reached over and enclosed Daeron's hand in his own.

"It's all right, lad. No need to feel shamed for crying out," the grizzle-haired man told him. "There isn't a one of us that hasn't done so."

Daeron released his grip on the edge of his mattress and turned his hand to squeeze the soldier's. The part of his brain that wasn't gibbering that his torturers had him again was grateful for the small kindness.

Adoan tossed the scalpel into a bowl, washed his hands, and instructed the other healer to apply a salve and fresh dressings. Then he traded his stained apron for a clean one before moving around the bed to take the leather strap from Daeron's mouth. He took a few minutes to massage the cadet's jaw to ease the pain of the locked muscles, meeting the eyes of the older soldier with a look of thanks. He hadn't missed the kindly gesture.

"Sure, and these healers ought to find something better tasting for us to bite on than some mouldy piece of harness. They'd come up with something better in a minute if they were the ones tasting their saddle for the next three meals, they would."

"For shame, Sergeant Arnagond. I'll have you know that we use only the best saddles and not a one of them is mouldy in the least," Adoan retorted. "Though I will allow the taste could be improved."

"Ha!" The Master-Sergeant was tickled by Adoan's response. He gave Daeron's hand a last squeeze and released it. "You've drew a good healer, lad. Best to stay on his good side."

"Flatterer!" Adoan kept his eyes on his patient but continued the banter with Arnagond while sliding his hand down Daeron's neck to check his pulse. It was still elevated but was gradually slowing.

"Not a bit of it. That butcher in Cair Andros would've taken my entire leg if you hadn't been there. Speaking of which, we have to do some negotiating regarding when you're going to let me out of this bed." The Master-Sergeant's eyes danced and Daeron realized that this was an ongoing discussion between the older man and the Healer.

"Negotiating? I _don't_ negotiate, Sergeant. You know that…" The ensuing "argument" distracted Daeron from the discomfort of being turned onto his side as the last of the dressings were secured by bandages around his torso.

By the time the Healer and Sergeant concluded their banter, the screens had been taken away from around Daeron's bed, all evidence of the treatment had been removed, and he'd relaxed under Adoan's hands.

"I'll consider letting you out of bed at the end of the week, and that's final." Adoan concluded.

Arnagond made a show of reluctant acceptance and shrugged as he settled back against his pillow. "Can't blame a man for trying, can you?"

"Are you still trying to convince 'Adamant Adoan' to let you out of bed?" another soldier from a bed across the aisle inquired. "I knew you were stubborn, but this is ridiculous."

Most of the other men in the ward got involved in the discussion, comparing Adoan to other healers and whether stubbornness was a requirement to enter the profession.

Adoan smiled as he felt Daeron relax completely and fall asleep. _This_ was why he chose to tend the military patients. Every one of the men who'd participated in the "argument" had been where this boy was at one time or another and had played the "army versus the physicians" game to distract him from the unavoidable pain. It had worked well enough that he'd not needed to dose Daeron with a sedative for once.

Laedren's suggestion of putting Daeron in with other soldiers—enlisted men rather than officers—instead of leaving him isolated was already bearing fruit. Not that the officers ever went into a group ward unless things were so dire there was nowhere else to put them; they were tended in private rooms or, if they had personal physicians, in their own homes.

Daeron slept the rest of the afternoon away. He was roused by one of the apprentices long enough to eat and attend to certain necessities then fell back into slumber, still drained by the painful treatment he'd suffered through earlier in the day. He was so disoriented with fatigue and pain that he didn't argue about the indignity of being fed and cared for like a babe.

* * *

_The hot iron fell against his back again but he was past responding with more than a rasping moan. His throat was as raw as his wounds. The one who asked all the questions seized his hair and jerked his head back, hissing into his ear. "This will end if you cooperate. Answer my questions and I'll even heal you."_

"_No." _

"_Ah, you don't believe me." Something softly stroked along the last burn leaving a blessed numbness behind it. "See? It need not all be pain."_

"_No." But this time he could hear uncertainty in his voice. _

"_So be it," the voice hissed and the irons fell on him once more. _

_The agony was too much, he couldn't bear anymore. "S-s-s-stop. P-p-please…" he croaked…_

* * *

Daeron woke suddenly, drenched with sweat, and the agony of the dream was echoed by the very real pain that had overwhelmed his sleeping mind. The healer on duty heard his cry and dosed him with something that sent him into sleep again within minutes, the pain vanishing to nothing.

* * *

_They returned him to the tent and left him alone in the darkness. He shuddered as his mind replayed the horrendous images of death and destruction on the backs of his eyelids. Unable to bear it he opened his eyes._

_He was unable to move or scream as the shades stepped before him, pale glowing wraiths, wearing the marks of the atrocities inflicted upon them at the time of their deaths._

_The first to stand over him were the three cadets who had helped tend him during the journey back to the City, their uniforms and flesh torn and bloodied, disgust and hatred in their eyes._

"_Let me sit heavy in thy soul always, I that died at hands strengthened by thy treason!" _

"_Think upon me, that fell in forlorn hope and let thy soul ever despair!"_

"_Think upon me, trampled beneath the bloody hooves of thy treachery, and with guilty fear let fall thy spear to stab yourself!"_

_They vanished to be replaced by Gharal, in whose chest gaped a dreadful wound._

"_Let my death sit heavy on thy soul! Think how your weakness stabbed me in my prime of youth!"_

_Halmir, his best friend since he could walk, was next, covered with blood and his throat torn open._

"_Let me sit heavy in your soul. I that was drowned to death in my own blood, by thy guile betrayed to death! Think on me, and fall thy honourless sword on thy own neck!"_

_Jorell stared down at him, displaying the bloodied and fleshless claws that had once been his hands, anger and betrayal in his face, before speaking._

"_Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, and with hands burned black by blood end thy days! Think on me and may thy sleep ever be filled with perturbations!"_

_Daeron was frozen where he lay, unable to close his eyes again and each word stabbed and burned worse than any of the blows or burns he'd taken from the enemy. Bitterness poured from the shade who stood over him once Jorell had faded away, her gown in rags, her once lovely face a mask of bloody cuts._

"_Think of me dishonoured and slain in my garden, my blood nourishing the flowers I loved. Let me be lead within thy bosom, and weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! I rue the day I put thee to my breast! Thy mother's soul bids thee to despair."_

_He whimpered with the despair she'd summoned as she left, and knowing whose shade would appear next, pleaded for escape._

"_Father…"_

_Laedren stood over him in the ruins of his uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, his sword hanging broken in his hand, bearing the marks of many wounds._

"_The first I was that helped thee stand, to walk, to lift thy first blade; the last but one was I that fell by thy word. I felt my heart itself torn out with thy hands, now ever bloodied by treason. Oh, that I had never fathered you! Forever think on me and live always in terror of thy guiltiness, for in thy treachery thou hast destroyed all of worth!"_

_Daeron sobbed in grief and fought to move to clutch at the fading shade, to beg for forgiveness, but he was still paralyzed and bound. The last shade stepped forward and he wailed in horror for the Lord Boromir now stood over him, the marks of the noose about his neck and bloody evidence of the other tortures plain to see. Worst of all was the disdain, and coldness in his face. _

"_When I was mortal, I was strangled by thy cowardice, my body by thy treason punched full of deadly holes then torn apart by thy faithlessness. Thy words broke and blackened these walls of white stone, thy fear opened the gutters to run with innocent blood, thy puling weakness hast given up all to the Enemy! Think on the fall of the Citadel and me and despair!"_

_Daeron howled as Boromir's shade vanished…_

* * *

Continued in Chapter 5: Through Daeron's Eyes: Recovery – Part Two 


	5. Recovery Part Two

_**Author's Note:** This is the second part of the story of the events that follow on chronologically from Chapter Two: War Games._

_Dedicated to my friends in the armed services with love and respect. You know who you are._

_Thanks to my readers for their patience while I battled with getting this typed up, and also to my beta and twin sister, Rhyselle, for catching my typos and making sure Daeron didn't become a Gary-Stu._

**Through Daeron's Eyes: Recovery – Part Two**

By Dancingkatz

- - - - - - - - - -

_Daeron howled as Boromir's shade vanished…_

Daeron howled and suddenly pushed himself up, reaching for the fading shade. He ended up throwing himself off the bed and landed on his back, entangled with Arnagond who, awakened by the boy's moans, had reached out to comfort him, only to be pulled from his bed when Daeron fell.

The quiet ward was suddenly in an uproar of questions and curses. The on-duty healer hastened in from the anteroom a lamp in hand, demanding to know what was going on. The ambulatory soldiers had left their beds and gathered round Daeron and Arnagond.

Daeron's eyes were open but sightless, seeing some horror invisible to anyone else, and the howl had subsided to racking sobs.

"Shut up, the lot of you!" Arnagond bellowed in his best Master-Sergeant voice, glaring at the noisiest of the group. "Get back to your beds." He maintained the glare until the last of them returned to their beds. The healer was about to call for an apprentice to assist in getting the two patients back into their beds, but Arnagond stopped him. "No, I'll take care of him. The last thing he needs right now is to be manhandled and left alone. Take the lamp with you. I'll call you once he's calmed down."

The Healer didn't like it but agreed. He also didn't like the orders he'd gotten from Healer Adoan regarding the boy, but it appeared that neither Daeron or Arnagond had taken any further hurt from the misadventure.

Once the healer had left them the Master-Sergeant pushed himself up to sit against the frame of his bed, ignoring the pain from his stump, and pulled the sobbing boy against his chest. "Be hush, lad. Be hush."

Gradually, Daeron quieted as Arnagond continued to murmur soothing nonsense.

"That's better. Dreaming can be hard, especially for a soldier. I've had my share of nightmares over the years." Daeron stiffened in his arms and he murmured. "Hush, it will be well, lad. Eventually, it will. Now, hush. Hush."

As the hours of the night crept onwards he continued in this vein and eventually Daeron began to speak of the nightmare. In the midst of his recital Adoan silently arrived and stood at the foot of Daeron's bed listening.

"This one was the worst," Daeron said after the painfully difficult retelling. "I never remember dreams but ever since… I'll _never_ be able to forget this."

"Perhaps. But then again it might fade once you're recovered. It's no wonder you had such a dream after the day you had."

Daeron didn't respond. He didn't try to move but tension returned the too-thin body. "I don't think I _want_ to recover." His voice was full of shame as he made the admission.

Arnagond waited while Daeron gradually confessed his fear that what he dreamed would come true if he went ahead and became an officer like his father. "I can't…"

"Lad, 'twas a nightmare, not a prophecy."

Daeron shook his head but said nothing. Arnagond thought for a while, his hand gently carding through Daeron's sweat dampened hair. Finally, he spoke. "You have a duty to do everything you can to recover, lad, to your parents, to your family, and your friends, that's entirely separate from your fitness to serve in the Army."

He continued speaking as Adoan silently approached them

"It was only a dream, lad. You aren't bound to live out a single thing that happened in it. Understand?"

"Yes, Si-Sergeant."

Arnagond smiled at the "sir" that almost slipped out. "You better not call me 'sir'. I work for my living, cadet," he mock-growled.

"Yes, Sergeant."

Arnagond sighed, his body had been complaining that he was far too old to spend a night sitting on flagstones but he could live with it if it helped this frightened youngster.

"Now, it looks like our esteemed healer is here to read us the riot act for being out of our beds without permission. Having a quiet night, Adoan?"

The healer snorted. "You should know that the words "quiet" and "night" never are used together when referring to a healer."

Daeron looked up at the Healer, too exhausted both physically and emotionally to say anything.

"They aren't usually used together when referring to a soldier either," Arnagond observed. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing out of bed."

Adoan folded his arms and tilted his head as he looked down at the sergeant. "That thought had crossed my mind. I distinctly remember saying that I would _consider_ letting you out of bed at the end of the week."

"Funny how fast five days can go by, isn't it, lad?" Arnagond grinned at Daeron, who was wilting by the minute. "Here, let our favourite healer get you back to your own bed. It oughtn't be too much work, given you're thin enough to be a stick."

Adoan lifted Daeron from Arnagond's arms and lowered him onto his bed. Then he turned to assist the older man.

Once settled against his pillow, Arnagond nodded towards Daeron and whispered, "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to be going on with. I'll be back in a minute. I want to make sure you didn't undo all my hard work."

Adoan returned shortly accompanied by the on-duty healer and did a quick but thorough examination of Arnagond and Daeron. Both had suffered some bruising but hadn't aggravated their existing injuries.

"Here, shove the lad's bed next to mine. If he has another nightmare I can wake him, without getting out of my own blankets." Arnagond suggested, having noticed that Daeron was fighting the sedative that he'd been given.

Adoan agreed and as soon as it was done, Daeron reached over to grasp Arnagond's hand and finally let his eyes close.

Arnagond stayed awake thinking about what he'd been told as they'd sat on the floor in the near-darkness. He heard a rustle of bedclothes across the way and raised his head to seek the cause. One of the other soldiers, Bandarel, who was recovering from a shoulder wound, had risen and was carrying a lamp in his good hand. He sat the lamp, which was turned down to a soft glow, on the night table and took a seat on the edge of Arnagond's bed.

"I couldn't help overhearing most of what he told you," he whispered.

"Of course, you couldn't. Everyone knows that you have ears that would shame a bat. I take it something is bothering you about it?"

"Everything. I used to be assigned to the aggressor team for the training exercises before I got transferred to my current unit. There's no way in Arda that we'd be permitted to do a _tenth_ of what was done to him. We could threaten with irons but we were never allowed to actually burn the cadets." Bandarel kept his eyes on the sleeping youth as he continued. "Something is very wrong at the Academy if this is being permitted."

Arnagond frowned and shifted his leg before speaking. "Are you still friends with any of the men who are currently assigned to the team?"

"Yes. I was planning on sending a note to one or two of them to stop by and visit me. I'll send it tomorrow, or rather today – given that the sun appears to be rising." He blew out the lamp and got up. "You should get some sleep."

"As if you don't need any. Let me know what you find out."

Bandarel tipped his head and returned to his bed. Arnagond rolled onto his back and stared up at the rapidly lightening ceiling. He didn't mind helping Daeron work through the nightmares. He'd done that many times with his own son. But this was more than just an unfortunate misadventure. It seemed there was more behind this than anyone had thought. Perhaps he ought to send some messages himself…

- - - - - - - - - -

Just as his fellow cadets had cared for him on the trip back to the city, the men in the ward took it upon themselves to assist Daeron as the days passed; insisting that it was their privilege to help him eat, to sit and hold his hand through dressing changes and treatments, to entertain him with outrageous stories, and be there with reassurances when the nightmares invaded his sleep.

By the end of a fortnight, the last of the stitches had been removed from wounds that were finally healing, and Daeron was beginning to put on weight. However, that didn't prevent the men from referring to him as "Sticks" when they included him in their banter. There were still dark circles under his eyes from too many nights of broken sleep but his bruises had faded to near invisibility. The burns were still problematic but were closer to being healed.

The first visitor he had wasn't his father or a classmate but Lt. Kergil, who'd been present at the debriefing the morning after he'd been liberated. Groggy from the after effects of the soporific he'd been dosed with during the latest treatment of his burns, it had taken a while to place the saturnine man who stood at the foot of the bed frowning down at him.

"Sir," was the safest response Daeron could think of while wondering why the officer had come. _Hadn't the man worn the insignia of a full Lieutenant at the debriefing?_ Daeron blinked to refocus his eyes but, no, the insignia on the man's shoulder was that of a _second lieutenant_. _Had he been demoted?_

The officer stiffened then turned and strode from the ward, leaving Daeron wondering if the encounter had been a figment of his currently rather befuddled imagination.

He frowned and carefully rolled onto his side, running his fingers through the soft fleece of the sheepskin, which had found its way onto his bed two days previously, trying to remember for certain if the man had actually been wearing full Lieutenant insignia at their previous meeting or not.

His thoughts were interrupted by Arnagond stumping back to his bed on the crutches that Adoan had finally allowed the old soldier.

"What did that sour-faced –" he coughed, and changed the epithet he was about to use when he saw Daeron was awake. "What did he want with you, lad?" he finally asked as he sat down on his bed and leaned his crutches against the wall.

"I don't know. He was standing there when I woke up." He frowned again.

"What's troubling you, lad? No point in keeping it bottled up inside."

"He was wearing a second lieutenant's insignia. But I'm almost certain he had full Lieutenant's bars back at the camp. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me." Daeron wondered why the trivial matter seemed to be more significant than it was.

"Move over, Sticks, and take this." Bandarel dropped onto the side of Daeron's bed and handed him a piece of tea cake then provided Arnagond with a similar piece. "Here, old man. My sister sent enough cake to feed a regiment, much less all of us."

Arnagond snorted at the term "old man" but accepted the cake with a look of anticipation. "Let me know if her husband decides to leave her, I'll gladly take her into my household as a cook."

"I'll be sure to let her know. Are you willing to accept the consequences if I do?"

"It's tempting, but I since I obviously can't outrun her husband, I'll just have to benefit from your generosity when she deigns to send you anything."

The two older men bantered with each other and Daeron ate the cake which was _almost_ as good as his mother's and snickered at the jokes he managed to catch.

Bandarel presently rose to his feet and brushed the crumbs that had accumulated on Daeron's bed to the floor. "I have a thank you note to write—well, scrawl, actually, since I have to use my left hand—to my sister. I have a surplus of paper and ink, if anyone wants any."

The gift of the cake had put Daeron thoughts on his mother and he suddenly missed her terribly. Unfortunately, he'd alienated her, along with pretty much everyone he cared about. He had to apologize to her…

"May I have some, Bandarel? I should write my parents."

The paper, pen and ink were supplied, along with a lap board and Daeron spent the remainder of the afternoon struggling to find the words that he hoped would bring his parents' forgiveness. When the missives had been given to the corporal who seemed to operate as Bandarel's personal courier, Daeron lay back in his bed and tried to hide the tears that were threatening. Arnagond, Bandarel and the other men were all supportive and friendly but his heart felt hollow. When Arnagond asked if he was all right, he lied and said his burns were hurting. He couldn't bear to tell the master-sergeant that the thing that hurt the most was his heart.

Arnagond called one of the on-duty healers over and after a quick examination the man left only to return with Adoan. Adoan concurred that Daeron was stressed and gave the young man a draught that sent him into sleep. As the frown lines on the youth's brow smoothed out, Adoan looked at Arnagond and lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

"The lad spent the past hour writing letters to his parents," he told the healer. "I think it's his heart that hurts him more than anything right now."

"That's usually the way it happens. Well, he should sleep until supper. Let me know if he rouses before then." Adoan spoke the last to the other healer who nodded and went to take up his other duties.

After the healers left Bandarel returned to sit with Arnagond and to discuss the earlier visit of the officer.

"I trust you noticed that Kergil is sporting a lower pay-grade these days. I have it on good authority that he was demoted after an inquiry into the way he was running the aggressor squad during the last set of war games." Bandarel spoke softly so only Arnagond could hear. "Apparently, all four members of his team have requested immediate transfers to another unit." His gaze moved to Daeron, who slept soundly in the next bed and he continued. "All four of them filed written statements that they had followed the orders that they'd been given to 'test' Cadet Greyvale under protest."

"And the bastard is still in the army? They should've pulled his commission and put him under me as a rank private!" Arnagond was furious. This was _not_ the way the Army was supposed to operate. Everyone knew that the cadets had a hard lot, it was part of the job description, but to order deliberate harm to one…

Arnagond decided that it would be a good idea to keep an eye out for Second Lieutenant Kergil. The man had no business being in the ward, much less hovering around Daeron.

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron roused enough to eat supper and then fell back asleep immediately thereafter. Given that he had slept most of the afternoon and evening, it wasn't surprising that he woke in the middle of the night when something knocked into his bed. He opened his eyes and saw the silhouette of a tall man before the window opposite his bed. Enough moonlight shone to highlight the metal of uniform insignia on the man's shoulder. Before Daeron could say anything, one of the other men moved and called out in his sleep, and the figure fled. He stared at the place where the man had stood for a while then fell back asleep.

The nightmare returned shortly before dawn.

- - - - - - - - - -

_He'd answered their questions, finally. But the pain didn't stop, nor did the questions. The hissing voice was always in his ear, worming past every defense he tried to put up. _

"_They're not going to come for you, you know. They're not interested in rescuing a sniveling coward. So you may as well tell me everything. It will hurt much less if you tell me what I want to know sooner rather than later."_

_Worse was the hand that would alternately soothe and slap. Daeron had long since passed the point of crying out, but the sudden realization that he longed for the gentle, approving pats on his head made him wail in despair._

_- - - - - - - - - - _

Arnagond had awakened Daeron from the nightmare but for once the boy wouldn't speak about what he'd dreamed. The soldier returned to his own bed after a few minutes but didn't go back to sleep. He was worried and he had the dismal feeling that more was going on than he knew.

Daeron was uncommonly quiet and biddable the next day; only the way his eyes would return to the doorway of the ward giving a clue to his preoccupation.

When the afternoon visitors arrived he grew even quieter. Eventually the afternoon passed and the visitors left.

"I shouldn't have said those horrible things to her," he said to himself as he settled onto his side, his back to the door, when he realized that the person he most wanted to see right now hadn't come.

Meriel waited by the outer door to the ward, and took a deep breath. In her fingers she folded and unfolded the note that had been delivered the afternoon before. She glanced at Adoan as the last of the other visitors passed them. "I wasn't so sure about what Laedren and you came up with, but now, thank you for doing it."

Adoan smiled reassuringly. "I think that Daeron's over the worst of the trauma now. He's wanting to be with people again instead of pushing them away."

"Then I'd best let him know that he didn't push me away after all." She slipped through the door and paused momentarily to scan the ward for her son's bed. She found it in the middle of the line of beds against the eastern wall of the room. The braziers were lit in the corners of the room, and lamps supplemented the weak late autumn sunshine that came through the unshuttered windows. Most of the men were settling to nap or read to pass the time before supper was distributed.

She loosened the heavy cloak she'd worn to the Houses of Healing as she moved to his bed and stopped at the end of it. She noticed the grizzled old sergeant in the next bed and smiled briefly at him before focusing on her son's back. Going to her knees between the two beds, and disregarding what the floor might do to her gown, she reached out and touched Daeron's shoulder as she softly said his name.

She couldn't resist catching up an elflock of his longish hair and began to detangle it with her fingertips.

Daeron opened his eyes and whispered "Mother?"

"Who else would dare to touch that mop on your head," she teased, tugging gently on the lock she held.

He was afraid to turn and look at her, feeling deeply ashamed for the words he's hurled at her at her last visit. But he rolled over and blinked back sudden tears and buried his face against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean..."

She held him close against her and crooned soothingly, "I know you didn't mean it, Daeron. Even before I left the room, I knew that it wasn't you chasing me away." She rocked him gently back and forth, like she had when he was a young child.

Daeron wept and tangled his fingers in the folds of her cloak. "I don't know if I can explain... I wanted you to stay but I didn't want..." He couldn't find the words that would explain why he'd behaved the way he did.

"Please forgive me, mother. I was wrong, so very wrong."

Meriel pressed a kiss on the top of his head. "You are forgiven." She tipped his face up and looked into the eyes that were so like his father's. "It hurt me, but I realized that it wasn't you who chased me out, but whatever worm is wriggling in that brain of yours."

Daeron looked into his mother's face and saw that she meant every word she'd said. "I want to tell you what happened, but I don't want to upset you. I don't want you to be ashamed of me."

She shifted to sit upon the edge of the bed, with her arm still wrapped around his shoulders. "I could never be ashamed of you, Daeron. I will listen. And do my best to not let my anger at those who did all this to you reign."

Speaking softly, Daeron leaned his head against his mother's breast. The delicate scent of her favorite rose and sandalwood perfume surrounded him and he let its familiarity sooth him as he tried to describe what had been done to him. "I finally gave in and answered their questions. I was a coward. Worse, what I told them could have..." he choked, struggled for composure.

Meriel didn't break into tears, although she wanted to. She tightened her embrace and tried to communicate her care for him through that touch.

Daeron continued, "It could be just the information they needed to defeat the army. I keep dreaming about it. They kill you, father, everyone, because I gave in and talked. Oh, mother, I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

"Oh, Daeron." She kissed the top of his head again. "You are no coward. Believe me."

"I put you in danger and I guess I got the idea that if you didn't love me, if I chased you away, then it wouldn't happen."

"I know exactly how you feel, Daeron," she told him, carding her fingers through his hair until, frustrated by the knots, she pulled a horn comb from her chatelaine and began to work out the snarls.

Daeron was silent for a few minutes, just reveling in the feel of his mother's gentle hands.

"Remember when you were eight, and Halmir accidentally stabbed you?" she asked.

"Yes. I was surprised that it hurt so much."

"Do you remember how I reacted?"

"You cried." Daeron thought back to that day. "You were crying and screaming. Janthred swore."

"Daeron, I blamed myself for what happened. I should have been paying more attention to what you and Halmir had been up to. You nearly died that day." She stopped combing his hair for a few long seconds.

Daeron looked up, distressed by this revelation. "But it wasn't your fault! I shouldn't have agreed to use the real knives."

"I had nightmares for weeks and weeks after. I'd wake up your father with them. There was so much blood on the flagstones, and in my dreams it washed you away from me."

"You didn't let me out of your sight for weeks afterwards. Even the day Lord Boromir came, you were constantly checking to make sure I was still in one piece. It wasn't your fault, mother. Surely, you don't still think it is?"

"I still want to keep checking to see that you are all in one piece." She resumed grooming his hair. "And, no, not anymore. But it was very hard to stop blaming myself." She added, "It was Lord Boromir who took me to task, you know."

"He did?" Daeron was distracted from the downward spiral his thoughts were trying to take. "But why?"

"Because I was so caught up in my sense of guilt for something that was not my fault, that I was going to likely cause the very imagined disasters that terrified me in my dreams. His words... and they--woke me up."

Daeron thought about her words for some time, then said," Lord Boromir is very wise, isn't he?"

Meriel nodded and parted his hair, drawing it away from his face. "Yes, he is--we are very fortunate to have him not only as our Steward's Heir, and your Father's--and your--Captain-General, but as a friend also."

"Mother, would you mind if I told you what I dreamed?"

"I wouldn't mind at all, Daeron." She laid down the comb and nestled him against her again. "Tell me what you can."

Daeron dropped his head to her shoulder his face turned towards her neck and whispered. "After I told the enemy what he wanted to know, they left me alone for a long time, then I was dragged outside. They took off the blindfold and the city was burning. They made me watch while everyone I ever loved or cared for was killed before my eyes. You'd been in the garden, you were wearing that blue apron you wear when you're cutting flowers. They hurt you horribly and I couldn't do _anything_ to save you."

She gave him a squeeze, and waited a moment to see if he would say more.

Daeron paused for a bit and then continued. "Then I saw father die. And they... killed Lord Boromir and the Steward and... it felt like my hand was on the knife and rope."

"Like it felt like it was my hand upon the knife when you were young." She picked up his hands and lifted them so they were before his face. "Look at them, Daeron, and tell me what you see?"

"Just my hands."

"Look at them and describe them to me."

"Well…." Daeron was at a loss as to what the point of the exercise was but he did as she asked. "There's a scar from when I cut myself in Jorell's workshop three years ago... and there's some bruises..."

"Is there any blood on them?"

"Blood? No.…"

She enfolded his hands in her own. "Clean hands and clean heart are the basis of honour. Do you remember me telling you that when you were young?"

"Yes. You told me that every night when you came to hear my prayers."

"Your honour is bright, Daeron. Your hands are clean, and so is your heart. Have you been saying your prayers?"

"No," he answered reluctantly. "I... didn't feel that I should speak to the Valar... I... I..." He gave up. He couldn't find the words to express how unworthy he felt.

"It's when we feel least worthy to petition the Valar that they long for us to do so. Will you let me hear your prayers tonight, after you eat your supper? I'll let you off on the Standing Grace," she added, with a slightly teasing glance at the bumps under the blanket that were his bandaged feet. "Just this once."

Daeron nodded and hugged her close. He was weeping again, but this time it was from sheer relief. "Oh, please, yes."

Meriel waited until he stopped crying and settled him back against his pillows. "Would you like me to read to you for a bit?"

"Please."

His mother opened the girdle book that she carried next to her chatelaine and opened it. After a moment's thought she began reading of the awakening of the Second-Born. As her sweet voice read the familiar words, the susurrus of conversation between the men quieted and soon all those who were awake were listening.

Adoan entered the ward as she finished, followed by the two on-duty healers and a handful of apprentices to do the evening round. Meriel closed the book, laid her hand on Daeron's forehead and smiled at him. "I'll leave you to your healers for a bit. I'll be back to share supper, I promise."

She rose and turned to go, catching the gaze of Arnagond who had quietly sat up to listen to her reading. He offered her a half bow. "Thank you, my lady."

"Whatever for?"

"Reminding us why we do the job we do."

"I should thank you, Sergeant. I understand you've been a great friend to my son."

"He's a good lad, my lady. I'd be a happy man to serve under him one day." Arnagond dipped his head again and let her go.

- - - - - - - - - -

Meriel had stepped beyond the doors of the ward and was contemplating the sunset through the western-facing window of the anteroom when she was accosted by the one man she would gladly leave lying in the dirt if she ever found him injured.

"Lt. Kergil," she said coldly, and went to step past him.

However, he grasped her arm and prevented her from doing so. "Meriel, my lo…"

"Do _not_ call me that! Unhand me at once, you…_cur_!" She was furious. Not only had this—she was _not_ going to call him a man—been responsible for her only child's current condition; he'd been a lurking, unwelcome presence around the borders of her life ever since she had turned down his proposal and chosen to wed Laedren sixteen years previously.

"A _cur_, madam? You dare to call _me_ cur?" he hissed, yanking her close and burying his other hand in her dark hair.

Meriel groped at her chatelaine with her free hand for the embroidery scissors that hung there. "Aye, I do. Unhand me this instant unless you would prefer to find yourself--fixed!" The sharp points of the scissors were suddenly far too intimate with a sensitive part of his anatomy. He instantly released her and snarled, "Bitch!"

"Yes, and you _dared_ to harm my pup. Get thee gone, cur!" Meriel was incandescent with rage now.

"You'll pay for that…" Kergil threatened, stepping towards her again. Then the sudden sound of voices approaching the closed doors to the ward sent him fleeing. Meriel sank onto a bench and hastily composed herself. The doors opened to disclose Adoan and his fellow healers.

"You may return to your son now, my Lady," Adoan said.

"Thank you, Healer Adoan. I am very, very grateful for what you've done for him." She smiled at him, her reaction to the events of the past several minutes hidden. She had no time to be weak with Laedren in Cair Andros and Daeron still abed. If necessary, she would petition Denethor for protection from the obsessed man. But for now, her highest priority was her son.

Adoan gestured for her to precede him into the ward.

- - - - - - - - - -

After sharing supper with Daeron, she sat and listened to his prayers then stroked his forehead until his eyes closed. Once she was certain he was asleep she bent and kissed him. "Sleep well, my darling."

When she stood, she was surprised to find one of the injured soldiers at her side. His right arm was in a sling and his shoulder bore a bulky bandage. He introduced himself as Bandarel and offered her his left arm.

When they reached the anteroom, a large and sturdy looking corporal was standing at parade rest by the bench that Meriel had sat on after her encounter with Kergil.

"My Lady, permit Corporal Marrin to escort you to your home. It being after dark, I think Daeron would prefer that you not walk the City on your own."

Meriel looked into Bandarel's dark eyes and flushed when she saw the knowledge writ there.

"I shall say nothing to your son, my Lady, I promise."

"But, how…" she said weakly. _Was that dreadful confrontation already common knowledge?_

"My fellows call me the Bat, my lady. I have been blessed—or cursed, if you will—with extraordinarily sensitive hearing. No one else here is aware of what happened." He bowed over her hand. "Marrin is pathologically discrete. Were I you, I would not leave home unescorted until your Lord husband has returned to the City."

"Thank you. I will gladly accept the Corporal's escort."

Bandarel watched her go and returned to the ward. The sooner Lord Laedren returned to the City the better; things were far more complicated than he had imagined.

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron had awakened some time after midnight, uncertain of what it was that drew him from his sleep. The ward was dark, even the nightlights had burned down and not been relit. No moonlight came in through the windows because thick clouds obscured Ithil. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, wanting to return to the, for once, pleasant dream he'd been having.

Then a familiar hand was stroking his hair and the hissing voice that was present in his nightmares spoke at his ear. "Such a good little traitor, you are. Betraying everything just to…."

He suddenly realized that this _wasn't_ a dream. Terror filled him, and he screamed and flailed, tangled in the blankets. Something was knocked off the night table, shattering on the flagstones with a crash; the voice hissed a curse, the hand lifted from his head and a shadowy figure fled the room as the ward erupted into noise and chaos.

The darkness was dispersed as the healer who had night duty ran in bearing a lamp, demanding to know what was going on.

Arnagond reached over to Daeron. "It was just a dream, lad."

"No! It wasn't a dream. He was really here," Daeron insisted. He couldn't stop shaking. He hadn't just dreamed that hand in his hair or that voice in his ear. He'd heard it before while awake, for three whole days. He'd finally broken and given in not because the pain had become more than he could bear, but because he couldn't bear to _not_ feel the soothing touch of that hand in the midst of a living nightmare. "He was here…"

Bandarel had come over carrying another lamp, carefully avoiding the broken pieces of the ewer that had been on the night table. Something glinted amidst the shards. He set the lamp on the night table and he bent to pick up a military issue survival knife. The edge had been freshly honed.

"Whoever it was, he was most definitely real." He looked up as Adoan arrived. "Someone just made an attempt on Daeron's life. He can't stay here any longer."

Adoan nodded sharply and gave out several quick orders. The duty healer left and the other men reluctantly returned to their beds. Then he turned his attention to Daeron.

Shortly, the ward returned to a more or less normal state. Daeron was moved to a private room elsewhere in the Houses of Healing. Messages were sent out to recall Lord Laedren from Cair Andros, to notify the Academy Commandant of the attempted attack on one of his cadets, and to Lady Meriel. Daeron was unaware of most of it, Adoan having immediately dosed him with a strong sedative.

The next day Adoan spent several hours with Daeron insisting that the cadet go over everything he could remember about his ordeal and the ensuing nightmares. Bandarel was present for most of it, as well as his silent Corporal. About mid-afternoon, during a break when Adoan had left to deal with an emergency admission, Daeron looked at Bandarel and said flatly, "You're not an infantry Sergeant, are you? And he's not just a Corporal."

Rather than answer Bandarel adjusted his sling and asked Daeron, "What makes you think that?"

"You're not acting the same way you were in the ward," Daeron answered. He looked at the man in silence for a few minutes. Bandarel seemed not to care that he was being closely observed by the boy that he was, in reality, guarding. "You're a Special Officer. That's why you're always sending and receiving messages. Arnagond said that after I arrived in the ward you'd become a model correspondent all of a sudden."

"I can't verify anything you've said, Daeron, one way or the other. But I can tell you this wound wasn't faked. I just happened to be here when they brought you in. Something is very wrong at the Academy. I was asked to keep my ears open is all."

"I heard Arnagond call you Bat Ears."

Bandarel laughed. "I've had that nickname since I was a six year-old. It has come in handy a few times." He sobered. "Did you see anything that might identify your attacker last night?"

"No. But his voice—it was the same as in my nightmares." He hesitated before continuing. "It was the same as…as…I heard it when I was captured."

He was looking down at his clenched hands so he didn't see the expression that flickered over Bandarel's face and the way the man's posture changed. The Sergeant exchanged glances with his companion and Marrin rose to his feet and slipped out the door.

Minutes later Adoan returned and what Daeron was beginning to consider a cross-examination continued.

Later that evening Daeron realised he'd gotten used to the sound of the breathing of fifteen other men; he just couldn't seem to be able to fall asleep in the silence of this room and, so ended up staring up at the ceiling, which was barely illuminated by the flame of the night light on the table across the room from the bed. It didn't help to know that there was a guard on the other side of the door, either. Adoan hadn't mentioned it, but Daeron had seen the man in the uniform of the Tower Guard when the door had opened to admit an apprentice and his supper tray. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to figure out what the man was doing there.

He hadn't even been able to get Marrin to take a note to his mother. His eyes fell upon the flame of the night light and he remembered her words about the Valar.

_O, Valar, I am lost and afraid, but the Light you bless us with shines through the darkness, leading me safely past terror and doubt. Let me trust in your strength when mine fails. Let me trust in your presence when I feel alone. Let me trust in the rightness of your design, the beauties hidden and unhidden, and the love eternal which never dies. Amen._

A feeling of peace stole over him and he finally slept.

He woke in the very early morning to find his fingers entwined with another's and opened his eyes to see his father dozing in a chair with his feet propped up on the edge of Daeron's bed. Daeron didn't speak but just feasted his eyes on the beloved face. Laedren had removed his armor and boots, for they lay on the floor next to the chair, but was otherwise still dressed in his uniform. _O, thank you, Valar!_

Content and feeling safe, Daeron let himself fall asleep again.

- - - - - - - - - -

Later that morning, after both had roused, Daeron had made his apologies to his father, and they'd eaten breakfast, Laedren found himself temporarily evicted from the room while Daeron was cleaned up and his remaining injuries treated and redressed. The officer took the time to seek out Bandarel and found the man sitting with Arnagond in the ward. He wanted more information before he talked to Daeron about the midnight attack.

When Laedren returned to Daeron's room, he found that the guard who'd been on the door was gone with no replacement. Reminding himself to check on the whereabouts of the guard, he opened the door, to find Daeron arguing with Adoan about taking the dose the Healer was offering.

"It doesn't hurt that badly." The lie was obvious because Daeron's face was pale and sweat beaded his brow. "I don't want to sleep all day."

Adoan looked like he was ready to hold Daeron's nose and pour the draught down his throat as if he were dosing a recaltricant puppy, so the argument must have been going on for some minutes.

"Daeron, take the dose. _Now_."

Adoan took the cup back from Daeron who had immediately choked the vile tasting stuff down at his father's words. "I take it, that is what's called 'command presence'?"

Laedren snorted. "Something like that. Will it put him to sleep?"

"Eventually," Adoan answered. "But you should have time for some conversation before it does. I should hire you to help me deal with some of my more stubborn patients."

"You don't pay enough."

Adoan laughed, mentioned that he'd be by later to check on his patient, and left.

Laedren took a seat in the chair, turning it to face his son who still looked pale. "Nice to know I haven't lost my touch. Now, I want to hear your description of what happened the other night."

"…It was the same man who…" Daeron was finding it hard to stay awake. He struggled to sit up and found his father had pushed him back against the pillow.

"No, stay there. So the voice was the same as the one that was interrogating you. That puts a different complexion on things." The Captain mused for some minutes then continued. "Daeron, I promise we'll get to the bottom of this."

"I thought I was going crazy when he whispered in my ear. Everything is so mixed up. I thought I was dreaming but then I felt his breath on my neck…" Daeron's words came more and more slowly and he finally succumbed to the draught.

Laedren waited until he was sure that Daeron was asleep and then went to get some answers to questions that seemed to be becoming more critical by the hour.

- - - - - - - - - -

The next few days passed fairly uneventfully, except for the nightmares which were still plaguing Daeron's nights. Lady Meriel and Lord Laedren took it in turns to visit, but neither Halmir, Gharal or Jorell had yet made an appearance.

Bandarel had periodically come to see him but Daeron felt his brief visits were more like reconnaissance patrols than social calls. Arnagond had come in stumping along on one crutch and his new prosthetic leg at least once a day but he was usually chased back to his own bed by one of the healers before the conversation could get interesting.

Lord Laedren arrived late in the morning with Lord Boromir in tow, the two of them having just left a Council meeting, to find Daeron scowling at the pages of a rather thick book, and several closely written sheets of paper scattered on the blankets.

"I see you must be vastly improved, if your healer has let you be assailed with that much reading," Boromir said as he crossed to the bed in Laedren's wake.

Daeron looked up and let the book fall. "Lord Boromir! Father!" He started to sit up, intending to make a bow but was waved back by the Steward's Heir.

"What _are_ you studying?" Laedren gathered up the loose sheets of paper and frowned at the crabbed lettering.

"Mother had Janthred gather some books and make up assignments. This is supposed to be military history but it sounds more like politics to me." Daeron picked up the book again only to have it snatched from his fingers by Boromir.

"Let me see. Ah, good old Eagle-Beak! I remember this from my Academy days. Yes, there's quite a bit of politics in here, but it all has a bearing on why Romendacil I chose the strategies he used to defeat the Easterlings."

Laedren snorted. "It's _Thoronbaec_, and Romendacil I used the strategies he did because there's only one way to take out a fortress like the Ectalabren. Politics had nothing to do with it; and no, I am _not_ going to get dragged into this debate _again_." Laedren plucked the book from Boromir's hands and returned it to Daeron. "

Daeron couldn't resist asking, "What I don't understand is why he spent all that time in negotiations with Harad and Umbar. Why would he spend all that time ignoring the Easterlings? Didn't that give the East-King more time to fortify Ectalabren?"

Laedren shook his head and grinned as Boromir sat in the chair next to the bed and began to answer Daeron's questions. He cleared his throat and said, "If you will excuse me, I need to speak to Adoan."

Daeron and Boromir paid him no mind, their entire attention being on the discussion. Daeron was more animated than he'd been in weeks, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. He reached for one of the pages lying on the bed as Laedren exited the room, leaving the door slightly open behind him.

"So, all those months of politicking was to make the East-King think that Romendacil had no interest in Ectalabren or the pass it guarded. He dropped his vigilance and opened the city again. Once he did that it was easy for Romendacil's forces to get in via the trade road and compromise the cisterns." Daeron ran his finger along the line of the canyon pass on the map he held. "I knew the fortress was besieged, but I didn't realize that it had started almost a year before the first soldier set foot in the Gateway canyon."

"Yes, not all sieges are conducted with trebuchets and fire," Boromir told him, delighted with Daeron's interest and perception. "The other benefit to all those negotiations was that it prevented Harad and Umbar from effectively allying with the Easterners. If you go into the archives and take the time to wade through all the minutiae of the negotiation records, you'll find that Romendacil was offering them some things they really wanted. Even though they considered the Numenoreans to be the devil incarnate they dealt with him. All men will deal with the devil when it serves their self-interest."

Daeron considered that for a few minutes then set the map aside, his face set, his eyes looking past Boromir at the doorway. "It's _all_ about sieges and self-interest, isn't it? Whether it's a city, a fortress, or just one man. The East-King didn't want to keep the city closed off because the lack of trade was probably on the verge of making his own people rebellious. Harad and Umbar preferred to deal with Romendacil I in the council chamber because it meant they weren't going to have to field their armies and give away information on their military strength. They were under siege just as much as Ectalabren."

Boromir nodded but said nothing. It was obvious to him that Daeron was coming to some rather unpleasant conclusions for a youth raised on the ideals of honour. Boromir had dealt with the same issues and it had shaken his world to have to accept the truth.

"I was like Ectalabren, wasn't I? No matter how many defenses I put up, once he got inside, I was compromised. Only instead of breaching a cistern, he offered a moment's kindness in the middle of…No!"

To Daeron's horror, Lt. Kergil had slipped into the room, his eyes on Daeron and an expression of utter loathing on his face. Then he realized that the cadet was not alone and he lunged towards the chair where Boromir sat, hands raised to choke the life out of the man sitting there.

But Daeron's warning allowed Boromir time to turn and grapple with Kergil. The men toppled to the floor and in spite of Boromir's greater bulk, the second lieutenant's madness lent him strength, and he managed to get atop the Steward's Heir. Boromir planted a hard knee in a place guaranteed to get the attention of even a mad dog, and Kergil threw himself backwards, pulling a knife from his belt.

Before the man could take any further action, Daeron threw himself from his bed to fall on Kergil's back, getting him in a chokehold, squeezing his forearm against his windpipe as hard as he could, and hanging on for dear life.

Kergil gargled something through the chokehold, and failing to claw Daeron's arm away from his throat with his free hand, brought the knife down and back.

Daeron screamed as the blade stabbed into his side but didn't let go. He saw Boromir rise and pull his sword just as Laedren and Marrin burst through the door, followed by Adoan and Bandarel.

Barely able to breathe, and with three swords ready to fillet him, Kergil surrendered. Daeron let go his hold around the man's neck and he slid to the floor, groaning as the impact jarred the knife in his side. He thought, as he was lifted up to the bed—which Bandarel had cleared of the books and papers by dint of sweeping them to the floor—that he'd forgotten just how_ much_ a knife stab hurt since he was eight years old.

Kergil was taken away, under arrest, now hissing pejorative epithets and threats at Daeron, Laedren, Boromir, and Marrin. It was clear by the time Marrin and another soldier had taken him out of earshot that he'd believed Boromir to be Laedren.

"I told you we looked like twins," Boromir quipped as he and Laedren turned back to see how Daeron was fairing.

"And I told you that problem could be solved if you dyed your hair blond," Laedren retorted, sheathing his sword, then taking Daeron's hands in his own.

"Why should I be the one to dye my hair? You'd look just as fetching with golden locks as I would," Boromir teased, standing at the head of the bed and placing his hands on Daeron's shoulders. Daeron snickered but immediately stopped. Laughing was _not_ a good idea right now.

"Not according to Meriel. Do _you_ want to be the one to explain to her why my looking like a transplanted Rohirrim is necessary?" Laedren was plainly worried but he kept up the banter to distract his son.

"Do you think I'm crazy? No, thank you! I prefer to stay on the good side of your lady. She has a wicked right hook!" Boromir glanced towards Adoan and then increased the pressure on Daeron's shoulders at the Healer's slight nod. "Or don't you recall just _how_ my nose became crooked?"

"I thought that was from Gyldenlác bashing you in the face with his head because you forgot his sugarloaf," Laedren returned. "No, _that_ was the third time your nose was broken. Let me see, the _first_ time was…"

Daeron then lost track of the conversation because Adoan had pulled the knife from his side and begun treating the wound. He had passed out by the time the cautery iron was employed and the dressing was bound in place.

He was awakened by the acrid bite of Adoan's apparently favourite restorative in his nostrils. "Wake up, Daeron. You need to answer a few questions."

"…attempted murder of a superior officer, assault and attempted murder of a cadet nominally under his command, gross misuse of authority, violation of innumerable military articles, not to mention the attempted assassination of the Steward's Heir, with witnesses to _all_ of it; moreover, witnesses willing—no, _eager_—to testify before a Courts Martial _and_ the Steward. He will _not_ view unbarred sunlight again, and that not for long." Lord Boromir was speaking to a harried looking, stout, grey-haired man wearing brown court robes.

"Yes, my Lord. It is obvious to me the man is guilty of all you say, but the forms _must_ be observed, before any of that can happen. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak to this young man and get _his_ view of events." The man spoke to Boromir in a tone of great patience and familiarity.

Boromir laughed and clapped the man on his back. "All right, Giselher, we'll leave you to it. I can't help it that you actually managed to teach me some jurisprudence."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my Lord. You should know that by now. I promise I shan't terrorize the lad. I leave that for lawbreakers."

Boromir crossed the room to stand over Daeron. "Answer Giselher's questions to the best of your ability, Daeron. He's an officer of the Law Courts. Your father will be in to see you once he's clear of his morning duties." He smiled and squeezed Daeron's shoulder in a gesture that was rapidly becoming comforting and familiar. "Thank you, Daeron. You're a man I'd be glad to have at my back anytime."

"My Lord…." But Boromir was gone, leaving him with Giselher and many questions of his own.

The lawyer sat down, looked at him for a few moments, nodded as if answering an internal question and began.

When the Giselher had left, Daeron stared at the ceiling, feeling as though he'd just completed a three day cross-country ride… as the _horse_. If this was the way the man questioned witnesses, Daeron definitely didn't want to be a lawbreaker under his examination.

The most distressing moment had been when the man had pulled the knife that Kergil had used from the satchel he carried and asked Daeron to identify it.

"It's mine."

"No. Is this the knife you were stabbed with? Did you see it in your attacker's hands?"

"Yes, it was the knife he used. But it _is_ mine. My father gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday, just before I entered the Academy. I had it on my belt when I was captured…"

"Captured?"

"It was part of training. He must have taken it from me when I was unconscious."

"Who must have taken it from you?"

"Lt. Kergil, or one of his men. He was the commander of the aggressor forces."

Gradually Giselher pulled the details of Daeron's captivity from him as well as the attempted attack in the ward.

"So, after torturing you under the guise of this 'war game', Kergil came to the Houses of Healing, and attempted to attack you in your bed even before today's events."

"Yes. I just wish I knew _why_." Daeron said, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. "Oh, I know why he did what he did at the enemy camp. That was just part of training. But I can't figure out what he has against me that would make him do what he did afterwards."

Giselher had offered no suggestions and concluded the interview, taking the knife and his notes with him.

Daeron's musings were interrupted by the arrival of his mother and father. Laedren looked rather grim, but Meriel smiled and crossed to embrace Daeron.

"It seems that your grandfather was right. He always said that you would find trouble, and if you weren't looking it would find you."

"It finds me. I don't go looking for it, honest!" Daeron said into her shoulder as he carefully returned her hug. The painkiller Adoan had given him was effective so long as he remained still but with any significant movement the wound made itself unpleasantly known in spite of it.

"You could have fooled me; leaping on Kergil like that." Laedren sat on the foot of the bed and removed his gauntlets, uncovering the bracers that Daeron had made him for Yule three years previously. "No, I'm not angry at you. You only did the same thing I would have done. Your grandfather said the same thing about me."

Daeron released his mother and looked up at Laedren. "He used my knife, the one you gave me."

"I know."

"But _why_? I don't understand why he did all this."

"I can answer part of it," Lady Meriel interrupted. She took Daeron's hands and held them together between her own. "Kergil grew up near my father's holding in Lossarnach. It seemed he was always underfoot, and when I turned sixteen and went to Minas Tirith with my parents and your great-uncle Lord Forlong's household, he tagged along. After I met your father at Lord Boromir's coming of age celebration, Kergil proposed marriage to me. I turned him down and accepted your father's proposal instead. Ever since…" She sighed and looked at Laedren sadly. "Kergil was jealous of our happiness. He's tried to alienate the two of us every so often but hadn't done anything to cause trouble for nearly six years. I think when he saw you it brought all that jealously and anger back to the front of his mind."

"But…" Daeron looked from his mother to his father and back. "That was just wrong! Didn't he have _any_ honour?"

Meriel squeezed his hands and hushed him. "Jealousy is a very ugly thing, Daeron. It makes people do things they wouldn't normally do. Kergil had to have known who you were when his men brought you into the camp. You look so much like your father. All I can suppose, is that his jealousy saw your father and took out his anger and hatred on you in his place."

Laedren rose and knelt next to Meriel, his one arm wrapping about her waist and covering her and Daeron's joined hands with the other. "It didn't help when I was promoted to Captain and appointed as Lord Boromir's Aide, either. Nor when I discovered that Kergil had been embezzling unit funds."

"He thought Lord Boromir was you. When he came in he was coming for me and then saw Lord Boromir…He was going to kill both of us." Daeron realised.

Meriel nodded. "Thank the Valar he didn't. I couldn't bear losing either of you."

"Well, by the time the Courts and the Steward finish with him, Kergil won't be able to hurt anyone again." Laedren said with confidence. "And yes, dear, I know he accosted you when you came to see Daeron that day. He was trying to press assault charges against you. Since I didn't see any broken bones I assume that this time you used a weapon of some sort instead of your fist?"

"What? Mother! He accosted you?" Daeron was outraged.

"There was no harm done. I threatened to geld him with my embroidery scissors and he let go of me." She freed one of her hands and patted her chatelaine. "I should gone ahead and done it."

Daeron stared at his mother in surprise. He'd had no clue that his delicate-looking flower of a mother could be so ruthless.

"And of course, I used a weapon. It took weeks for the bruises on my knuckles to fade after I punched Lord Boromir's nose that time. I had to wear gloves when outside the house for nearly a month."

Laedren laughed and kissed her hand. "I had wondered about that fashion statement."

Daeron had turned his attention to Laedren, remembering the conversation between his father and Lord Boromir. "So what you were saying was true. Mother _did_ break Lord Boromir's nose!"

"She certainly did! It's never been the same since."

Meriel and Laedren turned smiling faces towards the familiar voice. "Oh, Ori, you know you deserved it. And your father was right there and didn't say a word to me afterwards," Meriel told him as he approached the little family group.

Daeron wasn't sure which astonished him more, that his mother actually hit the Steward's Heir with apparent impunity, or that she called him by a nickname. And he was awfully curious about what had made his usually so proper mother do such a thing!

"He wouldn't dare! He knew he might have been next!" Boromir dropped a kiss on Meriel's cheek and gave Laedren's shoulder a squeeze. "I just spoke with Giselher. He's on his way to my Lord father with the results of your interview and it looks like Kergil's trial will be held after Yule. There's no need to befoul the holiday season with such proceedings and he's not going to be going anywhere."

They were interrupted by the arrival of a page in the livery of the Tower. The boy bowed and announced, "I beg your Lordships' pardons, but the Lord Steward requests the immediate attendance of the Lord Laedren and Lady Meriel upon him. I am to bring you to his presence, my Lord, my Lady."

Meriel kissed Daeron again and rose to her feet, followed by Laedren.

"Go on, I'll keep Daeron company." Boromir shooed them towards the door and the waiting page. "It won't do to keep my father waiting." He then picked up the book he and Daeron had been discussing at the time of the attack and sat down. "Shall we continue our discussion, this time without any unseemly interruptions, I hope?"

Daeron was more than agreeable. He took the book from Boromir and opened it to the relevant section, listened to be sure his parents and their escort were out of earshot, then asked with a grin, "Lord Boromir, just what _did_ you do that made my mother break your nose?"

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron was downright ecstatic. He was out of the houses of Healing finally, on convalescent leave in his parents' home, and would be returning to the Academy at the end of the weeklong Yule festivities. Halmir, Gharal, Grethen and Val had been spending the past several afternoons "getting him back into shape" by insisting he come with them on jaunts around the festively decorated levels of the city and daily rides on Ruinanor, who had made much of Daeron's return to see her in the Academy stables.

"I hope you don't mind, but we've been taking it in turns to take care of her and ride her out every day," Val said as the bay mare investigated Daeron's pockets for treats. "She really missed you."

"We all missed you. We were ready to sneak into the Houses of Healing and kidnap you since they wouldn't let us come and visit," Halmir said from the vicinity of his horse's front legs as he finished wrapping them.

"Then we found out why they wouldn't let us visit," Grethen had added, handing Gharal a martingale. "We weren't even allowed to send you any notes. I hope you didn't feel abandoned."

"No, not really. Besides I was the one who chased everyone away. I'm really sorry about that." Daeron told them as he readied Ruinanor for their ride.

"Hey, it happens. At least you didn't throw the chamber pot at me. That's what my Uncle Thavron did once. He hit the Chief Surgeon when my dad ducked." Halmir snickered. "When my uncle complains about how much trouble we all get into, I just remind him of that and he shuts right up."

"Knowing your uncle, that's probably the only time he shuts up," Gharal observed as he finished fastening the standing martingale and tightened the girth. "Where are we going today?"

"Let's just use the schooling field," Grethen suggested. "No point in wearing ourselves out by going all the way down to the Pelennor."

Of course, Daeron had ached like blazes the next day, but that didn't matter. His life was back on an even keel and he had a good deal to look forward to.

- - - - - - - - -

He was to accompany his parents to the Yule Eve Court and feast at the Citadel and had just discovered that his dress uniform was laid out on his bed, instead of the traditional dress robes. Before he could wonder about the change in wardrobe, his father entered the room. "Dress uniforms tonight, by order of the Lord Steward."

Daeron stood at attention next to his father in the Hall of Kings as the ritual of Yule Eve Court went forward. Laedren wore the full ceremonial dress uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, including the engraved cuirass, lamed pauldrons, and greaves. Half hidden by the black and silver gauntlets, Daeron was secretly proud to see the mithril sigil of the House of Greyvale beneath the White Tree on Laedren's bracers. His cloak fell in perfect folds and Daeron hoped that one day he would wear the same uniform with even half the panache his father did.

Daeron himself wore the dress uniform of a third year cadet, the black material unrelieved save for a thin band of silver piping at the collar and cuffs, the row of silver buttons and the shoulder insignia of silver bullion. His boots were a miracle of brightness, courtesy of several hours of elbow grease and polish.

Lady Meriel stood at her husband's other side, her gown a mist of silver tissue and white silk.

He was startled when Lord Denethor's herald announced there was a final presentation to be made before the Court was adjourned to the Merethrond for the traditional feast. "Daeron of Greyvale, attend upon the Lord Steward!"

Daeron never remembered how he got from where he had stood to kneeling before Lord Denethor and kissing the Steward's Ring of Office. In a daze he heard the Steward himself announce that Daeron, while recovering from grave injuries received in the line of duty, had saved the Lord Boromir's life.

"I am given to understand that the individual who attacked the Heir stole the knife given by your father upon your admittance to the military Academy. As that blade is now tainted with the criminal's treason, it is fit that the House of Hurin provide you a weapon in its place."

Stunned, Daeron stood as the Steward raised him up and placed a knife in his hands, closing his fingers around the intricately decorated sheath and hilt. "This dagger was worn by Steward Beregond in his days as Heir of the Stewardship, carry it with the same courage and honour he did."

Daeron could see Boromir from the corner of his eye, miming for him to breathe, a huge smile on his face. But the Steward was not done with Daeron.

"Though you are three years short of being rated a man in the eyes of the law, actions speak far louder than the calendar. Being a man you should bear a man's weapon. Take then this sword and wear it henceforth for the protection of Gondor."

A page offered Denethor an elegant scabbard and the Steward drew forth a long sword of exquisite workmanship. He held it before Daeron and said in a ringing voice, "Kneel and take your oath, _Lord_ Daeron of Greyvale."

Daeron went to his knees, tucked the knife into his belt and placed his hands on either side of the blade before him. "Here do I, Daeron, son of Laedren of Greyvale, swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the Realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end."

"And this do I hear, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

The sword was returned to its scabbard and placed in Daeron's hands. "Rise, Lord Daeron."

Any doubts about his fitness to become an officer of Gondor that Daeron still held from his ordeal were swiftly fleeing. And when Boromir clasped his wrist in a warrior's handclasp in front of all the Court, he knew they'd never return.

CHAPTER FINIS; **STORY TBC!**


	6. Storms and Honour

_Author's Note: Many, many thanks to my meteorologist friend Terri Ruwe who helped me figure out what had to be happening down in the ocean by Dol Amroth in order to have a tornado drop onto the Pelennor. All the descriptions of the effects of the tornado are things that both she and I have personally experienced or seen. And as always, thanks to my beta-reader Rhyselle for being a such a good sounding board and brainstormer when the characters became recalcitrant, and keeping the grammar-police away. Any remaining grammatical, punctuation or spellings errors are mine, not hers._

_Dedicated to the memory of those people who lost their lives during the super-outbreak of 148 tornadoes on April 3, 1974. _

_Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person._

* * *

Chapter Six - Through Daeron's Eyes: Storms and Honour

_By Dancingkatz_

If Daeron hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.

Early summer storms weren't uncommon in Gondor, particularly along the Anduin. But this had been something completely out of his experience. The dark funnel that had dropped from the clouds after a deluge of rain and hail had left a trail of devastation across the Pelennor unlike any he'd ever seen before.

His tutor, Janthred, had once told him of "devil-winds" that were generated from huge sea storms; unpredictable whirlwinds that could demolish a stone-built holding in minutes while leaving a flimsy lean-to or shed mere yards away untouched. Daeron was willing to believe it now, having just seen straw stuck into the stones themselves of a limestone wall, like arrows in a target butt, and a half loaded stone-wain perched in the top boughs of a tall oak tree.

Now he and his fellow cadets were searching through the rubble of such a holding looking for survivors. Unfortunately, survivors were few and far between. Only a scant half-dozen battered and shocked people were currently in the hands of the healers. Far more had died, crushed by rubble or apparently picked up by the whirlwind and thrown to earth again hundreds of feet away from where they'd attempted to shelter. He and Halmir were in charge of a dozen lower-year cadets and his other classmates were likewise supervising similar groups.

This was slow, heavy, and horribly depressing work. More than once they'd thought they'd heard a cry for help and dug through rubble, only to find that by the time they managed to lift away the debris that the trapped victims had died.

His entire group was tired, filthy, and wishing that someone would come and relieve them of this miserable duty. He'd had to comfort more than one cadet when the sights, sounds and smells got too be too much to bear. He'd have liked to been able to send them back to Minas Tirith and the comfort of their parents but it wasn't possible.

One of the duties of the army, in addition to the protection of the land from the incursions of orcs and other unsavory invaders, was to provide manpower and support in the wake of natural disasters. Given the increasing number of attacks by the forces of Mordor as well as the random orc gangs, placing the cadets on this duty only made sense. They weren't ready to face battle but could search for survivors, clean up debris, dig new wells, and most of the jobs that disaster recovery entailed, freeing fully trained men for the more dangerous task of keeping the enemy at bay.

One of the second year cadets shouted and waved. Daeron called the three nearest cadets to accompany him and he jogged over to where the youth was hastily lifting pieces of wood and brick. _Never run; if you have to go faster than a walk, jog. Running burns too much energy. You want to be able to be of use, whether to fight, lift, or carry when you get to where you're going. _The words of one of their training sergeants rang in his mind as he approached the cadet.

"Report, Cadet."

"I heard voices, sir. See, there's the edge of a trap door," the boy replied, not stopping his work.

Daeron set the other three cadets to assisting and looked about for Halmir. Seeing his best friend dragging a fallen branch nearby, he whistled the signal they'd arranged to mean "survivors". Halmir looked up at the sound, dropped the branch and summoned the remainder of their group. Soon the trap door was free of fallen beams, bricks and other detritus. As they worked they heard excited voices, and shouted encouragement to the people below as they lifted away the last beam.

It took Halmir and Daeron together to lift the trapdoor. At the top of a ladder stood a pale-faced youth barely older than the first-year cadets.

"Thank the gods! You heard us!"

There were nearly two dozen souls crammed into the root cellar; mostly women and children, which number included three infants. Daeron sent one of his cadets to notify the healers and another to report the finding of the survivors to the officer in charge of their detail. The rest he set to assisting the survivors out of the cellar.

Once the survivors were in the hands of the healers, Daeron sent half his team off to get water and food and continued the search. Unfortunately, all they had come across by the time the others returned were more corpses. With a sigh and a prayer for their souls, Daeron set a black and yellow cloth flag attached to a stick next to where the bodies lay. They'd set so many of those markers today that he didn't think he'd be able to look at the two colors together without recalling the grisly sight of crushed and broken bodies.

He kept an eye on his group. This was work that would break a full grown man, much less a thirteen or fourteen year old, and he was certain the underclassmen's barracks would be home to nightmares for some time. He knew that his own dreams would be more than unpleasant.

When Halmir returned with the others, Daeron sent his group to rest and eat. However, he only went to get water and then returned to searching. He wasn't hungry, and quite frankly, he doubted his ability to keep anything down.

By late afternoon they had given up all hope of finding any more survivors. So when they approached what was left of a barn, Daeron was surprised to hear cries for help.

The team set to work with a will, moving shattered pieces of siding and other debris; only to be halted by a massive tree that looked to have been thrown like a javelin against the foundation of the barn. It was far too large for them to move on their own.

Desperately, Daeron searched the surrounding area for other teams. He spied his classmates Grethen and Val and their group trudging away from another pile of rubble dejectedly. He shouted for them and waved them over.

"Keep working on clearing the smaller branches and loose stones. I'll be back. Halmir, see if you can find some axes." Daeron ran this time, towards the picket line where his mare, Ruinanor, drowsed with her stable mates. He grabbed her saddle from where it leaned with the others and hastily threw it on her back, tightening the girth, and thanking the Valar that they hadn't removed the horses' bridles but had only dropped the bits when they'd arrived at the holding. Then he did the same with Halmir's chestnut gelding. "Come with me, you two. I need you." Spotting a length of rope near the water buckets, he grabbed it and mounted, the gelding's reins in his right hand.

When he arrived at the rescue site he threw the reins to Halmir and the rope to Grethen. "Tie it around the tree and give me the end. Val, get the others out of the way, then go get your horse and find more rope."

When Grethen had tied the rope securely round one end of the tree, he handed the rope up to Daeron, who wrapped it round the pommel of his saddle and passed the remaining length to Halmir. "Get everyone away from the rope. Ready, Halmir?"

"All set here."

"On three, back up and keep going. One, two, three!" Daeron sat deep in his saddle, urged Ruinanor to move with his heels and pulled her head into her chest. "Back, back. Good girl. You can do it. Back, back."

Halmir had begun backing his gelding on Daeron's count and the horses struggled to move the deadweight of the tree from where it lay.

"Whoa! Good, Ruinanor. Whoa!" The bay mare was sweating and upset. This was not the type of work she was accustomed to doing. "We need more ropes and more horses. That tree's too heavy."

Halmir pointed to four of the under-classmen and told them off to find rope, and another four to bring their horses. Daeron set the remainder to clearing more of the smaller pieces of rubble, mainly to keep them busy. He threw his reins to Halmir and dismounted, climbing up onto the trunk and calling out to those trapped behind it.

"Are you all right? Is anyone hurt? We're working on moving a tree that's in the way."

"Thank you, oh, thank you!" a hoarse voice called back. "It's just me and Perrin and he's hurt bad. Hurry!"

"Hang on, we'll get you out, I promise." Daeron looked round at the sound of hoof beats. Val had finally returned with rope and the four underclassmen, Lieutenant Bedreth, and one of the Training Sergeants who carried a canvas bag. "Sir."

"You're still in charge, Cadet Greyvale. We're just helpful bodies. The sergeant has some axes."

"Yes, sir." Daeron bit back his surprise at the lieutenant's words and turned back towards the apparent chink where the boy's voice was coming from. "There's a tree in the way and we're going to move it. What's your name?"

"Arthen. Please hurry!"

"We'll be as quick as we can. Keep on being brave."

Daeron jumped down from where he stood on the trunk. It was hard to believe that a wind could move such a massive piece of wood as though it were a broom straw. But the evidence was right here before his own eyes. He found some likely places to tie off the ropes, and then started ordering his troops. "Grethen, set your cadets to cutting and moving away as many branches as possible. Val, throw me that rope and get a fire started, we're losing the light and will need torches. Halmir, get the horses organized. One rope to a horse. If they pull at once this thing ought to move." He paused and listened for the continued sound of the trapped victims. "Lieutenant, one of the people under there is hurt badly, and will need a healer. Are any of the healers nearby?"

"I'll get one if I have to tie him across my saddle. Good luck, cadet." The Lieutenant rode off towards the opposite side of the holding where the healers had set up their field hospital.

Daeron briefly wondered who this person was who was using his mouth and brain to organize the rescue and give orders to a higher ranking officer, then started tying rope to the largest branch he could find. He directed the remaining cadets to do the same to other branches and to take the loose end of the rope to one of the riders.

It took more time than he liked and it was nearly dark by the time they were ready to make the new attempt to move the tree. Daeron mounted Ruinanor and ordered everyone away from the tree and ropes. _Oh, please, don't let one of the ropes snap_. "Stay back until I tell you to go in and finish clearing the rubble. Sergeant, make sure _nobody_ gets in the way."

He saw the sergeant herding the youngest cadets further back from out of the corner of his eye and concentrated on making sure the ropes and horses were ready. "All right, on the count of three, back your horses. Make sure you go straight back. One, two, three!"

For a minute it looked as though the ropes were going to snap but then, with a groan, the tree _moved_!

"Whoa!" Daeron halted Ruinanor, who like the other horses was wet with sweat and unhappy about the whole affair. Daeron unfastened the rope from the saddle and dismounted, praising her. He latched onto one of the smaller cadets and told him to walk Ruinanor until she had cooled down. Immediately, the other first-year cadets went to do the same for the other horses, freeing the older and stronger cadets to assist in moving the remains of the barn from over the survivors. "Sergeant! Let's start clearing the rest of that rubble."

By the time they reached the small corner of the barn's foundation that had sheltered the two survivors, Daeron's hands were raw from the edges of the rough-hewn fieldstone and splintered wood that he'd helped move out of the way in spite of his gloves, and everyone else in the group were in a like situation. The relatively thin leather had become torn and abraded earlier in the day and it now provided little protection. But as the last piece of debris was lifted away and he saw the grateful and relieved face of the boy holding an unconscious and bloodied old man, he forgot about own his aches and hurts.

"Arthen, are you hurt?" He knelt next to the boy, who couldn't have been more than eight years old. He could see bruises and some minor cuts but nothing more. It appeared that the old man had sheltered the boy with his own body.

"No. But Perrin is." Arthen gulped and burst into tears, now that there were grown-ups present and he didn't have to pretend to not be scared any more.

Lieutenant Bedreth had finally arrived with the healer, who pushed past Daeron and set to work on Perrin, demanding that _someone_ bring over some torches for how was a man to _see_?

Daeron picked up Arthen and carried him away from where the Healer was now working over Perrin. He turned the boy over to the Sergeant, promising to come and see Arthen later. "I have to get back to work. Can you think of any place where people might have hidden when the storm happened?"

"The ice house and dairy, maybe." Arthen pointed shakily eastwards from the collapsed barn.

"We'll look there, I promise. Go with Sergeant Jassen now. I'll look in on you later." Daeron watched as the sergeant led the boy towards the small cluster of tents that had been set up to shelter the surviving refugees, then turned to find his team. It was full dark now at the end of a brutal day but that didn't mean that they were finished. When he got back to the area of the barn, he found that several other groups had arrived and the huge tree was now being cut into smaller sections. Someone had gathered up the rope, coiled it, and stacked the coils neatly. The horses, including Ruinanor, were picketed and being watched over by two first year cadets.

He spotted Lieutenant Bedreth near one the fires and went to report. He made sure to commend Cadet Berahel for his spotting of the trap door, as well as his classmates and the cadets who assisted in the rescue of Arthen and Perrin. After he was dismissed, he picked up a torch and more of the horribly ubiquitous black and yellow markers, intending on checking out the dairy and ice-house.

However, he was halted by the Lieutenant's aide, who told him that fresh men had arrived and he was to see his troop safely bivouacked and fed. "That includes yourself, Cadet."

"Yes, sir. Arthen said that some people might have taken shelter in the ice house and dairy. I think it would be a good idea to check them out. They were to the east of the barn we found Arthen in."

"Both places will be checked. Give those markers to—ah, Sergeant Ralthir, take those markers from Cadet Daeron and check out the icehouse and dairy. They were standing to the east of that barn."

A short while later Daeron located his classmates by one of the campfires that had been lit around the steading after having seen his team settled with their bedrolls and dinner

. He'd caught two of the younger cadets on their way to get water from the stream that ran nearby and herded them back to the campfire where he explained to them all that they were to get water only from the healers. It appeared that his team was made up of city-bred boys who had no understanding of the problems a polluted water supply could cause.

He located his pack and dropped to the ground next to it to unfasten and open his bedroll. It didn't take long to open it out and bless Halmir and the others; they'd picked a bivouac spot that was singularly lacking in rocks to dig into one's back or hip.

But before he could sleep he needed to make his daybook entry. Before he entered the Academy his father had made sure he knew how important it was to report the happenings of each day, no matter how mundane and ordinary it seemed. Mundane and ordinary certainly weren't adjectives Daeron would apply to today's events but he didn't know if he had the competence to describe some of the things he witnessed. Things like the stone wain in the oak beggared belief.

As he opened the writing case that had been his mother's gift upon his entry into the academy, he mentally thanked her again. It had proven a most useful gift. The interior was cleverly padded and compartmented to hold three turned wood nib holders, metal nibs, a penknife, an emery block, two sealed bottles of ink, and an elegant green glass pen as well as his daybook. The closed box made for a small but effective lap desk for the times, like now, when he didn't have access to a desk or table.

He'd taken the time to clean up while supervising his team's ablutions so he didn't have to worry about dirtying the pages. He opened one of the ink bottles and took up the glass pen. It was the easiest to write with and he didn't want to try sharpening a dull nib at this point. He could hear his tutor's voice in his head as he began the entry, cautioning him to think before he wrote so that his meaning and lettering were equally clear.

Oddly, as he wrote of the day's events and made annotations of the commendations he'd recommended his weariness fell away. Finishing the entry, he put the book and writing case away in his pack and stretched his stiffening muscles. He wasn't going to be able to sleep any time soon; unlike his classmates who were long since snoring--in Halmir's case , quite literally.

After a moment's thought he reached into his pack and pulled out a handsomely-tooled leather case. Another gift, this had been given to him by Jorrell, the Citadel's master saddler. It held leatherworking tools and materials. It had proved more than handy over the past three years for repairing tack and replacing straps and so forth on armor. But tonight he needed to do something that would take more concentration than replacing a billet on Ruinanor's saddle.

He unwrapped a rolled strip of leather that was tucked in the corner of the case and held it to examine the partially done tooling in the firelight. One-third of the length had been carved to look like a garland of roses and other flowers, and the continuation of the design had been drawn on the remaining length. Daeron set the belt, which he would eventually give to his mother, on the block of ironwood that took up about a quarter of the space in the case and selected a carver from the collection of tools. He'd been working on it in his spare time for over two months now and was hoping to get it finished before the graduation ceremony in July.

He'd added another full blown rose to the garland when the sound of someone stumbling and cursing colorfully beyond the range of the firelight broke his concentration. He grinned in spite of himself at a particularly memorable phrase. Only one man he knew used _that_ particular epithet…

"Arnagond?" He set aside the belt and his tools and scrambled to his feet, peering in the direction of the familiar voice.

"There you are, lad. I was about to go and feed that corporal who has charge of quarters his own tongue for sending me on a wild goose chase!" The gruff sergeant stumped into the firelight and grinned at Daeron who now almost matched his height. "I won't be able to call you lad much longer it seems. What _are_ they feeding you lot these days?"

"Nothing I'd call edible." Daeron grinned back and offered his hand only to be dragged into a quick embrace and slap on the back.

"It's good to see you, lad, though I wish it were under other circumstances."

"What brings you out here? I thought you were…"

"Oh, once Adoan got finished with me, the powers that be decided to send me over to the Quartermaster-General's to get the mess there straightened out. I came out here with a dozen wagons of food, tents and equipment." Arnagond shrugged. "The entire army's mobilized, even old crocks like me, between the relief work and heading off any orcs or Easterlings that might decide to take advantage."

"You're anything but an old crock," Daeron told the sergeant. "Are you all right? I heard you stumble."

"Some lunatic decided to leave a pile of stones where they have no need to be and of course, my new leg found them before I saw them." Arnagond scowled at Daeron's smile. "Don't tell me you had something to do with it."

"No, but I bet Halmir did. I was wondering about the lack of stones under my bedroll."

"That friend of yours is nothing but trouble waiting to happen. Except that it'd be too much of a nuisance to get up again, I'd fill his boots with the damned rocks."

"I could do it for you, if you want," Daeron offered, his grin widening. He hadn't pulled a prank on Halmir in months and still owed his best friend for about three practical jokes.

"It's tempting, but no. I'll be gone back to the City before he wakes up and wouldn't get to see his reaction. Speaking of which, I have to get back to my wagons. I saw that pretty mare of yours in the picket line and decided to come find you while the stuff is unloaded. You might see Bandarel around and about, as well. Like I said, there's not a single man stood down. Likely he wrangled a cushy job, unlike the rest of us."

"Probably. Take care of yourself, Arnagond. I'll make sure I stop in and see you once I get back to the City."

"I will, lad. Take care of yourself as well. And don't lose any of your gear!" Arnagond teased.

"I won't! Goodbye." The two exchanged a soldier's handclasp and the veteran sergeant stumped off into the darkness.

Daeron picked up the belt and his tools and put them away, yawning. Talking to Arnagond for those few minutes seemed to have settled something in his brain and sleep was no longer evasive. He banked the fire and slid into his bedroll with a sigh, and before he lost all capability to think, he wondered just what _was _Bandarel up to these days…

* * *

By the time Daeron saw his bedroll again he was more heartsick than he could ever remember being. It had been a day full of death; the rescue operation had now become one of recovery. They'd found no more survivors, only bodies. 

After they'd discovered the bodies of a half-dozen children and the women who'd been watching them beneath the ruins of a cottage, he'd ended up sending his first and second year cadets to help the quartermaster sort through and set up the supplies that had been delivered by Arnagond. It was no less hard on the third and fourth year cadets, but he couldn't bear to see the sight of 13 and 14 year olds pulling the bodies of what could have been their little brothers and sisters out of the rubble again.

"I keep telling myself it would be worse if orcs had done it," Halmir said as he deposited a waterskin into Daeron's lap and dropped down beside him. "But I don't believe it."

Grethen and Val had arrived as Halmir spoke, looking just as miserable as Daeron felt. "It's because we understand orcs," Grethen said. "They're filthy, sadistic monsters, but we can understand it when they attack. This… how do you understand something like this?"

"Evren keeps saying that it's an act of the gods," Val muttered as he pulled his pack closer. "If it is, I don't understand why I should respect the gods any more. No self-respecting god should wantonly kill babes."

Gharal arrived moments later, his arms full of rations. "Here. There's a mess tent set up but I couldn't face eating with the survivors. I had to tell one of the children we rescued yesterday--she couldn't have been more than 6--that her mama wasn't going to wake up. I told her that her mama had gone to heaven, but after what I've seen over the past two days, I don't think I can believe in a heaven any more."

They ate in silence and, for the first time in months, Daeron didn't bother with the standing grace. It wasn't that he was angry at the Valar; he was just too tired, physically and emotionally, to get up from where he sat.

"Did you check on your teams?" he asked once everyone had finished eating. He'd made himself look in on his team after he'd made his report to the on-duty Lieutenant. The younger boys had the same questions his friends and classmates seemed to have and he had no answers to give them.

Gharal shook his head and climbed to his feet. "Not yet. I sent them to eat and got our food. They should be ready to bunk down by now. Anyone want to come along?"

Halmir sighed and got up, too. "I'll come with you. I want to stop by the healers and see how Perrin and Arthen are doing. At least we saved _them_."

Daeron watched the two leave and then stared down at his plate, his thoughts grim. Grethen and Val exchanged glances and Grethen gathered up the mess kits, taking Daeron's out of his hands, while Val eyed the pile of dead wood that was stacked nearby and reached for his axe. "We'll get these cleaned up and get some more wood. I don't know about you, but I want a fire again tonight."

"I definitely want a fire," Val said. "Come on. We'll be back soon, Daeron."

"Don't get lost," Daeron told them and got a guffaw and an offended snort from the two as they moved off. Once he was alone he sighed and stared down at his folded hands. He should write his daybook entry but he felt too depressed to even try to put the events of the day down on paper.

_"An officer's daybook is not just a record of orders of the day, reports of injuries, disciplinary actions and supply requests, Daeron,"_ Laedren had told him when he gave him the calf-bound volume that Daeron still used. "_An officer uses it to put down his thoughts about his men, the actions of his superiors, his own actions, and information about the land he's traversing, the health and well-being of his men, and more. Your daybook is a record of your decisions, and should you be called before a board of inquiry, its contents may save your commission and career. Better to put more information down than you think necessary rather than less. And never sleep before making your entry."_

The memory of his father's words was the only thing that made him get up and pull the writing kit from his pack.

_Today has been nothing but a day of death_, he wrote. _Not another soul has been found alive in all the ruin caused by the storm since we found Arthen and Perrin yesterday. I have lost count of the number of markers I have placed. Would being in the crews who carry the bodies to the morgue be easier than this has been? Thinking we heard a cry for help only to discover that it was our imaginations and that the ones we found had long since passed through the veil? _

_My team is tired in spirit as well as body. If I could, I'd send those who remain to help the healers as I did the youngest. But I can't do this alone. All I can do is comfort them as I would have wanted someone to comfort me if this had happened when I was a new cadet, barely free of the trappings of childhood. Tomorrow we begin again and it will no doubt be worse._

_I have no hope that there are any more survivors to be found. Would this be harder to deal with if those we find had been the victims of an attack by the Enemy, as Halmir said tonight? Or would it be easier because we know why orcs kill our people? _

_I can only hope that elsewhere fewer were lost, and that more survived to rebuild their lives and dreams._

He'd just put down his pen when he heard a choking sound. He turned his head to identify where it came from and found himself peering into a stand of trees. They 'd been told to stay out of the woods, as the storm had uprooted many of the massive trunks and they leaned precariously against one another, liable to fall with the shifting of the breeze or from some subsidence or other. Ever since they'd arrived there had been periodic crashes as the damaged trees finished falling to the earth.

But the sound came again and it sounded like a man in great distress. Dropping the daybook onto his bedroll, he went to investigate. If someone was alive in there…

He hadn't gone far into the stand when he discovered a toppled tree, the massive trunk down and a familiar man pinned beneath its bulk.

"Bandarel!" Daeron fell to his knees by the man, who wore the blood-stained leathers of an Ithilien Ranger.

"Daeron?" The pain filled eyes lightened to recognize the cadet.

"Hang on! I'll get help." Daeron started to rise but was restrained by a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist.

"No… too late for me… take this… for the Steward… only for the Steward… promise."

Daeron was appalled at the effort it took for the man to whisper the words.

"But…"

"No,… give it… to… the… Steward… only… swear… on your oath!" The hissed words were followed by a round of choking coughs and trickle of blood appeared at the corner of Bandarel's mouth.

"All right, I swear! On my oath, I promise. It goes to the Steward only, no matter what. Bandarel!"

A small pouch was pressed into his hand and, with a rattling sigh, the last breath left Bandarel's body.

Daeron knelt there in shock for an unknown time, Bandarel's head and shoulders cradled in his arms. It was only when he heard Grethen shouting for him that he moved to tuck the pouch into his tunic, and raised his voice for his classmates to find him.

"Daeron, you're not supposed…oh, gods!" Halmir skidded to a halt as he recognized the dead man. "Oh, gods. I'm sorry, Daeron. Grethen, over here!"

The others arrived and somehow Daeron found it in himself to direct them. "Get the Lieutenant, one of the sergeants, anyone. Bring axes, saws, whatever can be used to get the trunk off him. I can't leave him here."

The ruddy late afternoon light that made its way under the branches of the trees lit Bandarel's face in a soft rose glow, making it appear that life still existed where there was none as Daeron waited for a recovery team to arrive. He and his classmates couldn't move the huge trunk but the idea of leaving his friend's body to the ravages of nature was something he couldn't bear.

Two hours later he was back at his camp, under orders to stay there. Bandarel's broken body had been extricated and taken to the morgue to await cremation with the others lost to the storm. After staring in silence into the fire that Gharal had built up for some time, he reached for his daybook and began writing a memorial to his friend.

_I never thought I'd be saying a final farewell to a friend so soon. But it's happened and my friend Bandarel Cerrelsson has passed through the veil. Bandarel had no need to be kind to me when we met in the Houses of Healing last year. Nor had he any reason to seek out my company once I was released to go back to the Academy. But he did both. He taught me a lot of things that the Academy doesn't teach you, like how to rig your pack so your entrenching tool doesn't end up poking you in the back each time you take a step. It doesn't sound like much when written down, but that tip, like the others he'd drop in the course of conversation, has made things a lot easier than they might have been as I've learned to be a soldier of Gondor. He taught me that first impressions may not be correct but that fact shouldn't stop you from trusting people. He taught me that leadership isn't something that comes automatically with rank, that it has to be learned. He taught me that your duty comes first, right after your honour. He taught me that there are times when an order should be questioned--not necessarily refused--but questioned. He taught me that promises and oaths are to be kept, even at the expense of your own comfort. He was a good man, an honourable man, and a loyal son of Gondor. I can only hope to use what he taught me and hope that from beyond the veil he will look down and be proud of me._

_I have a promise to keep to him, the last thing he asked me to do, to finish the job he was doing when he died. I will not let you down, Bandarel. You have my oath._

Daeron sanded the entry and set the book aside. Halmir sat nearby, not intruding but waiting patiently until Daeron noticed him.

"You need anything?" his best friend asked.

Daeron shook his head and returned his gaze to the fire. It was only after the others had gone to sleep that he withdrew the pouch that Bandarel had given him from his tunic. It was sealed, barely large enough to cover half of the palm of his hand, and heavy for its size. He needed to keep it safe until he could get back to the City and find a way to get it to the Steward.

He thought for a while then reached for his leatherworking kit. One of the times he'd visited with Jorrell, the saddler had taken the time to teach him how to make a puzzle case. Done correctly, only the maker or one who knew the secret would be able to open it and access what was inside. Daeron had seen wooden puzzle boxes before but never one of leather. He had the case he'd made under Jorrell's direction in the box with his tools; if he were lucky the pouch and its mysterious contents would fit inside it.

By the time he fell asleep, the pouch was secure in the case, hanging from a sturdy throng around his neck beneath his clothing.

* * *

He was awakened by the toe of Halmir's boot nudging his ribs. "Wake up sleepyhead, or you'll miss breakfast." 

The idea of food wasn't one he wanted to contemplate but he hauled himself out of his bedroll and pulled on his boots. It was going to be another thoroughly miserable day of locating and marking bodies. There were already several groups leaving the camp, the yellow and black flags in their hands. He rolled up his bedroll and went to gather his team together.

He'd just gotten the younger cadets organized when Sergeant Ralthir arrived. "Your team is coming with me today. You're to report to the command tent immediately."

Daeron paused before approaching the command tent to straighten his uniform. He couldn't do much about the dirt and stains, but he could at least make sure he had all the buttons fastened properly. Taking a deep breath he pulled himself to attention and strode towards the doorway of the tent.

He stopped the requisite distance from the table that functioned as a field desk, saluted, and said, "Cadet Greyvale reporting as ordered, sir," his eyes on the tent wall above the Lieutenant's head as per regulations.

"The Captain-General has some questions for you, cadet," Lieutenant Bedreth said, then excused himself to Lord Boromir, who had been standing to the side, and left the tent.

Daeron didn't move from his position of attention but waited while Boromir seated himself in the Lieutenant's chair, which creaked alarmingly under the bulk of the Steward's Heir, Bedreth being a much less substantial person.

"You've grown some inches since I saw you last, Daeron. At ease." The familiar voice was warm and the tired green eyes were compassionate as Daeron met them. "I received word this morning of the death of Lieutenant Bandarel, and understand you found him ere he died."

_Lieutenant? I was right, then. Bandarel wasn't 'just a soldier.'_ "Yes, my Lord. I heard the sound of someone choking and when I went to investigate I found him trapped beneath a fallen tree. He died within minutes of my arrival."

"You are aware that Lieutenant Bandarel did special duties, are you not?"

"The Lieutenant asked when I first met him that I not ask or speak about such things, sir," Daeron answered carefully. If anyone knew if Bandarel had been a special officer, the Lord Boromir would, but Daeron took the notion of "a loose tongue might get you hung" very seriously. Additionally, all the special officers reported directly to the Steward, _not_ the Captain-General.

Boromir snorted in amusement. "He taught you some of his tricks, I see." Then he grew serious. "Bandarel was to deliver something to Minas Tirith. It was not on his body when it was brought to the morgue. Did he give you anything?"

Daeron hesitated. What had he promised exactly? That he would give the pouch to no one save the Steward. He could answer the question without breaking his word. "Yes, my lord."

"Very good. Give it to me."

"No, sir. I can't do that," Daeron said through the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat.

"What was that, _cadet_?" Boromir was no longer genial.

Daeron returned to a position of attention before answering. "I cannot give it to you, my Lord, on my oath."

"This is a matter of national security, Cadet Greyvale. I am ordering you to turn the item over to me, immediately." Yes, Lord Boromir definitely had left geniality behind. The words had the snap of a Command and the only reason Daeron didn't pull the puzzle case from his shirt was the memory of Bandarel's words "_to the Steward only_" and his oath.

Oaths were _not_ to be broken, not under any condition; particularly deathbed oaths. Bandarel had said the Steward was the only person Daeron could give it to and that was the way it was. It didn't matter that Lord Boromir was Daeron's commanding officer and, at the moment, angry at Daeron's failure to obey an order.

"I will request that you turn over the item to me one more time, or you will be searched, it will be taken from you, and you'll be spending the next month contemplating your actions in the brig." Boromir was out of the chair now, standing behind the desk with his hands flat on the map that covered most of the surface.

Daeron blanched and for a moment his courage quailed; but Bandarel's words _"on your oath!"_ rang in his mind and he stiffened his back and quietly answered, "No, my Lord."

"Guard!" Boromir's eyes never left Daeron's. "Fetch the Master at Arms here immediately." The soldier who had responded to the call saluted and left.

Minutes later, the Master at Arms arrived, and stood by while Boromir gave Daeron another chance.

"Cadet, I order you to turn over the item Lieutenant Bandarel gave you."

Now trembling, Daeron again refused.

"Master at Arms? Search Cadet Greyvale for non-regulation items."

The stone-faced man nodded and stepped forward. "Do you wish me to relieve the cadet of his weapons, my lord?"

Boromir glanced to Daeron's waist where hung the sword that Lord Denethor had presented to him the past Midwinter and the knife once worn by Steward Beregond. "Yes. Place them on the desk."

Humiliated, it took all of Daeron's will to stand still while the Master at Arms removed the sword belt and made his search, but when the case was found and taken from him he couldn't help making a grab for it. He was immediately seized by the guard who had returned with the Master at Arms and held fast.

Boromir examined the case and tried to open it, but the apparent "lid" was no such thing. After some minutes he growled, "Tell me the trick to this, cadet. Bandarel was no leatherworker."

Daeron kept silent, his eyes on the tent wall, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder as the guard pulled his right arm behind him. That physical ache was nothing compared to what was going on in his heart. He felt as though he were being slowly torn into two pieces, his oath warring with his duty to obey his commanding officer.

"No, sir."

"Very well. Master at Arms, what is the penalty for failure to follow a direct order from one's commanding officer?"

"Ten lashes, my lord. And a fortnight of hard labour." The Master answered automatically.

Daeron swallowed as he realized what was happening. He'd had to witness two floggings so far in his time at the academy and had prayed never to have to witness another. Now he was going to be the recipient of one.

"Cadet Greyvale, you have failed _twice_ to obey a direct order from your commanding officer. You are hereby sentenced to 20 lashes and a month of confinement at hard labour. Master at Arms, secure the cadet, take him into custody, and administer the sentence immediately." Daeron had never heard that tone of voice from Lord Boromir and hoped never to hear it again. Thank the Gods his father wasn't here, this was horrible enough without…

"Boromir?"

As the Master at Arms snapped the irons around Daeron's wrists, Lord Laedren of Greyvale, Daeron's father and Lord Boromir's aide, entered the tent, his hands full of dispatches.

Daeron was turned round and pushed towards the doorway of the tent, and met the astonished and disappointed eyes of his father for only a second before being frog marched out. He tried to close his ears to the sound of his father asking, "What in Arda has my son done, Ori?" Unfortunately, he was no more successful at that than he was at blocking out the ordeal to come.

He discovered that confinement in the field meant being shackled to the central support of the Master at Arms' tent. Between the weight of the 4-inch-wide post and the tension of the guy lines holding it in place, there would have been no way of breaking free even if he'd been secured with ropes instead of iron chain.

He waited; his back against the post, his wrists fastened securely behind him, his uniform tunic and shirt still unfastened from the search, and wondered where he was going to find the courage to bear what was to come.

_I swore by my oath. _He repeated that to himself until they came, stripped him of tunic and shirt, and took him out to where a scaffold had been raised. The cadets were lined up in parade ranks and a number of the regular troops and civilians were also present. His father and the Captain General stood to the side as the Master at Arms read the order of punishment, and Halmir stood with Daeron's other classmates at attention, with a look of complete disbelief on his face.

His shackles were fastened to the scaffold's cross piece and the guards stepped away.

_No, no, please, gods, no…_

The first lash fell and he couldn't stifle a groan. The pain was horrendous. By the time the last stroke fell, he was unconscious, his lip bruised and bloody from biting down on it to stifle his screams.

He was awakened by one of the field surgeons who impersonally inspected his back, poured a stinging antiseptic over it, and grunted to the Master at Arms, who stood nearby, his arms folded across his

chest, that there was no reason Daeron shouldn't be set to labour.

Four hours later, Daeron staggered as he straightened from laying the body of a toddler girl on the growing pyre. His mind had begun to ignore the pain in his back but it couldn't ignore the sights and smells of the small lifeless bodies he'd been carrying from the morgue to the site of the funeral pyres. The growing heat and humidity of the day didn't make the gruesome work any easier, nor did the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since the night before.

The men of the company whose turn it was to do funeral duty ignored him, save to gruffly tell him to get out of their way as they carried the adult bodies to the other pyres. They were aware that his participation in this duty was a punishment, not an honour, and not a one was going to offer a word of comfort to the boy.

Midafternoon found Daeron continuing his labour while the duty company stood down for a rest from the heat. He'd worn a track in the grass between the morgue tent and the pyre, 40 steps each way, his arms burdened during the first trip, and his heart burdened even more on the return.

The steading had been a large and prosperous one, providing the White City with grain, milk, cheese and other staples. More than three-quarters of the residents had died, too many of them children. He placed the last child on the pyre just as the sun touched the horizon and blindly turned back to the now empty morgue. _On my oath. On my oath. _He stopped in the entrance to the tent and swayed, uncertain of what to do. The task was completed. No longer having the task to concentrate on, now the pain of the flogging overwhelmed him along with the effects of the heat and he crumpled to his knees, his empty stomach heaving.

* * *

"No, Laedren." Boromir clasped his hand around his aide's shoulder as the other man started to step towards the fallen cadet.

Laedren shrugged off his Captain-General's hand but went no further. This had been a hellacious day from the moment he saw his son being taken in irons from the command tent. Regulations were regulations, and he believed that if Boromir said that Daeron refused a direct order twice, then his son had. But he couldn't help feeling that the punishment did not fit the crime.

_"Didn't you think to ask him _why_, Ori?" he'd ranted at his best friend and commander. "Daeron _had_ to have a reason for refusing."_

_"The _reason_ doesn't matter. He refused a direct order twice. I gave him several chances to comply without giving an order. I can't change the regulations just because he's _your_ son!" _

_"I _know_ that!" Laedren had growled as he paced the tent. "But knowing the reason might help me understand what is going through his mind. This is completely, _utterly_ unlike him and you know it!"_

_Boromir wasn't as untouched by the situation as some might think. He had a soft spot in his heart for the son of his best friend. He watched his friend pace for some minutes then forced himself to turn to his work, trying to put the knowledge of what the boy was going to be facing out of his mind._

As he watched, the Master at Arms and another soldier approached Daeron. The youth was pulled to his feet, the Master at Arms looked him in the eye, then turned him, fastening Daeron's wrists behind him, and then stepped back, allowing the soldier to lead him to the tent on the other side of the encampment. It was possible to hear some of the jeers and hoots that were tossed at his son as he was walked past his fellows and it took all Laedren's strength of will not to react. Once Daeron had been escorted into the Master at Arms' tent, Laedren turned towards his Captain-General and formally requested leave to return to his previous duty, which had been verifying the identities of the survivors so that the appropriate relief could be arranged.

Boromir granted permission and sighed as he watched his aide stride off towards the refugee encampment. They had been friends too long to have the relationship destroyed by this incident, but the strain on it was unmistakable. He made his way back to the command tent which Lieutenant Bedreth had turned over to him for the duration, having cheerfully moved into the tent used by the quartermaster.

The leather puzzle case sat in the center of the map table, mocking him. It looked to be so simple to open but nothing he'd tried had worked. Given its size and what he expected Bandarel to have been carrying, cutting into it would only damage the contents. Time sensitive contents. He needed them and he needed them _now_.

He rested his hands on the table and frowned as the beginnings of a headache started nagging at him. He had to stay until the funeral rites were completed before he could head back to Minas Tirith and find some other person who could possibly open the damned case.

* * *

After shackling Daeron once again to the post of the tent, his hands in front of him this time, his guard gave him water and bread before leaving the tent to take position by the entrance.

Daeron managed to drink most of the water but eating the bread was beyond him, given the stink of death that covered him. He'd been given enough slack in the chains that he could curl up on his side and so he did, falling into a stupor of pain and misery. His mind sheered away from the morning and the continuation of his humiliation and punishment. The stripes in his flesh were as nothing compared to the stabs of the jeers that his fellow cadets had thrown as he stumbled back to the tent or the disgust in the eyes of the funeral company. Or the look on his father's face that morning…

The tent was dark, without a lamp, the only light coming through the entrance flap from the torches when ever the evening breeze moved the canvas aside. He kept his eyes on that gleam until exhaustion won out.

* * *

Sitting alone in his study, Boromir flipped through the pages of the daybook in his hands. It wasn't his but he'd found it on the corner of his desk yesterday morning. Upon questioning, his secretary said that it had been among the papers and books that had been with him while out dealing with disaster recovery.

The daybook belonged to Daeron of Greyvale. It must have been brought to the command tent with the cadet's other gear when he was put into confinement. He'd intended on giving it to Laedren, who had taken the boy's pack home but something had made him keep it to hand. He'd set the book aside and attended to the day's duties but found himself picking it up at odd moments throughout the day, and skimming the contents.

Some of the entries brought a smile to his face in spite of his mood.

_It's odd. The hardest thing about formation isn't keeping in line, or making sure that I've got my nose lined up directly behind the spine of the cadet in front of me. It's the way that as soon as you get called to attention and can't move; your nose always itches. Either that or a speck of dust gets in your eye. _

_We had to take Grethen over to the infirmary again. This is the fifth time he's cut his head open by bashing it against the upper bunk during reveille. Why do they assign the tall cadets to lower bunks? Maybe they think coshing their heads will stop them from growing any taller? I think I'm going to start rolling out of bed now so that when I do get taller, I won't have the same thing happen to me._

_I actually managed to disarm one of the training sergeants today! Of course, it was only once, and I got disarmed about twenty times, but I did it! _

Other entries were more serious.

_Five senior cadets were convicted and sentenced for "conduct unbecoming" and for the assault of one of the daughters of the innkeeper of the Sheaf and Grapes. They were stripped of their rank at morning parade, flogged, and then turned over to the Guard. They'll be incarcerated until it is known whether the girl will die or not. I don't understand how anyone, but especially a man who is to become a Knight of Gondor, could do such a thing._

_Yesterday I almost failed in my duty because I was afraid. I overheard Gallis bragging to his sycophantic friends that he'd broken into Sergeant Verun's desk while doing CQ duty the previous night and gotten the questions for the upcoming test on military jurisprudence. They heard me as I tried to back out of the barracks and caught me, threatening mayhem if I gave them away. I'm ashamed that I agreed to keep quiet because I didn't want to get beaten up by them. They let me go and I went to morning formation. But even before the orders of the day were read, I knew I had to report them. What they did was cheating and that's wrong and dishonorable. So once we were released from formation I reported to the officer of the day and told him what I overheard. Hardly anyone is talking to me now because I "snitched," and no one, not even Halmir, stopped Gallis when he and his friends took their revenge last night. This morning Halmir said I was stupid for not keeping my mouth shut. But I couldn't, I just couldn't. I didn't fail my duty in the end, but did I lose my honour? A truly honourable man wouldn't have balked at doing what was right because he was afraid, would he?_

_There is only twelve more months to go before I graduate, and as I write this last entry before the new year begins I find that I feel less ready for the duties expected of a Knight of Gondor now than I did on my first day here. There is so much more to it than I ever dreamed. In the books I read as a child, things like duty and honour seemed so straightforward and easy. But they're not. It's one of the most difficult things in the world to keep them. Every day it feels as though the complications of life trips one up even more and it becomes harder to toe the line; especially now that I've been made a squad leader. I not only have to guard my own duty and honour, but that of the youths I'm supposed to lead. I'd hoped that this last day before the Midwinter leave began would go smoothly, but it hasn't. Two of my squad failed inspection and earned the last demerits required to get the Master at Arms involved. I could have turned a blind eye to the incorrect uniform and the ill-maintained harness and let them go home, but in honour I couldn't let it go. In the future, damaged harness could lose them their weapons. And an incorrect uniform will damage the image of the Guard—not to mention their poor attitudes when I brought these things to their attention. So I sent them on the Master at Arms and now they leave for home chastised and in disgrace. They don't understand why I didn't let it go and I don't know how to explain it to them so they'll understand. This would be unbearably depressing if it weren't for my friends Halmir, Val, Grethen, and Gharal, who all seem to understand without needing explanations. I couldn't ask for better brothers at arms than I have in them._

Honour and duty seemed to be the keynote to most of the daybook entries that were more than mere reports of the day's activities; especially since Daeron had returned to the Academy after that debacle of a field exercise in his third year. Boromir started to set the book aside again but paused as he noticed the edge of a piece of paper tucked into the pages. Curiosity piqued, he opened the book to the marked pages.

_We were given a pass today but as father is at Cair Andros and mother is on her annual visit to Great-Uncle Forlong, I chose not to go home. Instead, I went up to the saddlery to visit with Jorrell and he took the time to teach me how to make something he calls a puzzle case. I don't know what use such a thing could have, other than as a curiosity, but it was a way to spend an empty morning. When I left Jorrell, I went to the buttery to see if any of the men I knew from the Houses of Healing were there. The first person I saw after coming through the door was Bandarel. We ended up going riding after eating the noon meal and spent the afternoon talking. Whether Bandarel is really just a sergeant, or not; he's very wise. I've tried to remember the things he said as we rode, because some were pretty practical, and I'd be a fool to pass up good advice from an experienced soldier._

_" If you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door."_

_"Suicidal glory is the luxury of the irresponsible. You're not giving up. You're waiting for a better opportunity to win."_

_"Good soldiers never pass up a chance to eat or sleep. You never know how much you'll be called on to do before the next chance."_

_"War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with."_

_"When you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action. …when you desire a consequence, you had damned well better take the action that would create it."_

_"A tactical retreat is not a bad response to a surprise assault, you know. First you survive. Then you choose your own ground. Then you counterattack."_

_But before we parted he grew more serious and began to talk about honour and what is likely to happen in the next several years. I'm never going to forget the things he told me then. _

_"Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the honourless."_

_"We live in a time of transition, an uneasy era which is likely to endure for years to come. During the period we may be tempted to abandon some of the time-honored principles and commitments which have been proven during the difficult times of past generations. We must never yield to this temptation. Our values are not luxuries, but necessities - not the salt in our bread, but the bread itself."_

Boromir didn't finish reading the remaining quotations, but pulled his attention back to the beginning of the entry where, he realized, Daeron had provided he name of the one other person who could open the case. He dropped the daybook on his desk, snatched up the puzzle case and headed for the saddlery.

* * *

- - - - - - - - - -

Three miserable days after carrying the bodies to the funeral pyre, Daeron dropped another stone onto the pile that would eventually turn into a wall around the field and staggered back to where the rest of the punishment detail were digging up the sod. The soil on the Pelennor was rich but stones in it were plentiful. Rather than damage horses and ploughshares, a new crop field had to be dug out by hand and the stones removed.

At least there was a purpose to the work, he thought wearily, as he took back the spade he'd left stuck in the dirt after coming across the stone. It wouldn't have been easy work in any case, but the weight of the irons shackled round his ankles and the chain that connected them made it much harder. The length of chain was such that he could walk but not run, could raise a foot to press against the spade but not to climb. But far heavier than the shackles or the stones he carried or dragged was the weight of the disgrace that lay over him. Even the slowly healing stripes from the lashes he'd received were less painful. The point of the spade hit another stone, and he sighed before setting it aside to pull the offending piece of granite free of the soil and begin the painful trek to the far side of the field yet again.

_I may be disgraced. When this is over, I may be thrown out of the Army. My father might even disown me. I might be a pariah. But I'll still have my honour. _

Bandarel had been right, keeping one's honour was difficult; if he'd ever needed proof of it, his current situation certainly provided it.

He'd just set the stone on the pile when one of the guards set to watch them ordered him to halt. He stopped in his tracks, going to attention. The rules had been made more than clear to him the first day after being returned to the City, his hands bound to the pommel of Ruinanor's saddle, at the tail of the column when the academy cadets had left the steading the morning after the funeral service.

He'd realized early on that the whole point of his punishment was to make his life so miserable and difficult that he wouldn't even think to break regulations again; but when it came to a point of honour, honour had to trump the regs, didn't it?

* * *

- - - - - - - - - -

Boromir scowled at the puzzle case that lay on his desk and paced. Jorell hadn't known how to open this particular case; apparently Daeron had personalized it. Additionally, the saddler had looked Boromir in the eye and told him that even if he knew the particular trick to this case, he _wouldn't_ open it.

"It's a point of honour, my lord," he'd said and then turned back to working on the delicately tooled scabbard he'd been working on when Boromir had burst into the saddlery.

Laedren entered the office with more dispatches and handed them to his Captain-General. As he turned to go back to the outer office he spotted the book on the desk.

"That's Daeron's daybook. It was missing from his pack."

Boromir looked up from the dispatch he was reading and frowned. "Go ahead and take it. My secretary must have picked it up by accident when he packed my things."

Laedren picked up the calf-bound volume and couldn't help but open it to Daeron's last entry. He skimmed over it and then read the last line aloud. "'_I have a promise to keep to him, the last thing he asked me to do, to finish the job he was doing when he died. I will not let you down, Bandarel. You have my oath.'_ Boromir, what is this promise he made to Lieutenant Bandarel? Did he tell you?"

"Your son said nothing except to refuse to obey two direct orders."

"Did you read this? Given what Bandarel was, wouldn't it be a good idea to find out what he asked Daeron to do?" Laedren was ready to lose what little patience he had left with Boromir. "Listen to me, Ori. The point isn't that he's my son. The point is only he knows what Bandarel said at the end, and that he's the only person that can open that case without destroying the contents."

Boromir rubbed his hand over his face, shot a look at his friend and Aide, then stomped over to the door shouting for his secretary to get the officer in charge of the brig to bring Cadet Greyvale to his office "yesterday." "There, are you satisfied now?" he snapped.

"Thank you," Laedren answered, tucking the daybook into his belt pouch and crossing to a small table that held a decanter of wine and two goblets. He filled one of the goblets then carried over to Boromir. He exchanged the dispatches for the goblet and steered the Captain-General towards his chair. "When was the last time you slept, Ori?"

"Who needs sleep? The night before that damnable storm, I think. I don't suppose I can count the couple of catnaps I got while we were out canvassing the damage," Boromir answered, leaning his head on one fist.

Laedren sorted through the dispatches and handed two over. "You need sleep. You're grumpy, out of sorts, and frankly, you have _not_ been thinking very clearly. The rest of these can wait. Give me an answer on those two and then go to bed. It's going to be a while before they can bring Daeron in from the Pelennor. The punishment detail is digging out new fields this month. I'll wake you as soon as I get word they're ready to bring him up."

Boromir sighed and acquiesced to his Aide, reading the two dispatches, scrawling an answer on each. Then picking up the wine goblet and rising from the desk, he made his way to his bedchamber.

* * *

Daeron shivered as the cold water dripping from his hair ran down the back of the dull grey tunic he wore. After being brought back to the City, he'd been turned over to a sergeant at the brig, who ordered him to strip, wash and put on the tunic and trousers lying next to a tub of cold water. His eyes stung from the harsh lye soap but it felt wonderful to finally be clean again. As soon as he'd pulled on his boots he was shackled again and shoved out to where two of the Citadel Guard waited. Of course no one had told him what was going on.

When it became obvious that they were taking him to the Citadel, his heart fell into his boots.

* * *

Laedren looked up as Boromir's secretary stuck his head in the doorway.

"The prisoner is being brought up, sir."

Laedren stacked the papers he'd been pretending to read for the past hour and stood. "Very well. Bring the prisoner in directly."

The secretary vanished to the outer office as Laedren crossed to the door to the bedchamber. Hopefully, after a three hour nap, Boromir would be a little more reasonable than he'd been the past few days. Even the Lion of the Citadel couldn't function properly while running a sleep deficit. Once this—situation—was dealt with Laedren was going to make the time to get some sleeping draughts from Adoan and, from now on was going to make sure his Captain-General got some sleep!

Boromir was stretched out on the great canopied bed in the dim room, not quite snoring. Laedren shook his shoulder, said, "Boromir, wake up," then turned to light the lamp as the curtains had been drawn against the afternoon sunlight.

Boromir was one of those people who woke quickly and by the time Laedren turned back to him, was sitting up reaching for his discarded boots. "They've brought him?"

The strain on Laedren's face was obvious in the lamplight now that there was only Boromir to see him. "He'll be here directly. Oh, Gods, I'm so glad that Meriel doesn't know about this; that she's still in Lossarnarch, so she doesn't have to see his public disgrace. It would kill her." He handed Boromir his sword belt automatically as the other man stood. "It's killing me."

Boromir started towards the door to his office, settling his uniform tunic more smoothly over his shoulders, then stopped as Laedren followed. "No. You're staying here."

"He's my son, Ori! He probably thinks I've disowned him!"

"Nevertheless, you're going to stay in here, out of his sight. That's an order, 'Dren. This is bad enough without…" He paused as the distinctive sound of chain against marble was heard. "'Dren, please."

Laedren drew away from Boromir, his face stiff. "As you order, my Lord."

Boromir shook his head in frustration. "It's going to be hard enough on him without you there. I'll leave the door ajar. You'll be able to hear him, but for the Gods' sake, stay in this room and don't let him see you!"

"You didn't care so much for his welfare when you sentenced him!" Laedren snapped.

"He disobeyed me in front of witnesses. What else could I have done? He's here. I need to get this over with. Please, just stay here." Boromir turned and walked from the room, schooling his face into an expressionless mask.

Laedren caught a glimpse of his son, dressed in the dull grey of prisoner's garb and looking far the worse for wear as his Captain-General left the bedchamber, and dropped onto the side of the bed, his head in his hands.

* * *

Daeron stumbled as he stepped over the threshold of the Hall of Kings, Boromir's hand grasped firmly around his upper arm. The Steward's heir had long legs and his stride was greater than the limit the chains permitted Daeron. They were followed by the guards who'd brought Daeron up from the brig; one of them peeling off to stand at attention by the closed doors, the other continuing to shadow Daeron.

The noise of the shackles he wore echoed in the great hall, making Daeron feel even more intimidated than he had been as they progressed past the statues of past kings towards the Steward. He tried to tell himself he was shivering because of the water that continued to drip down his back but knew it was just plain old-fashioned fear.

Denethor, garbed as usual in his favourite fur-trimmed robes, was seated in the Steward's Chair, the White Rod held cradled in the crook of his arm. His face was stern as he watched his son approach with the disgraced Cadet Greyvale.

They finally reached the front of the Hall where both knelt. Daeron went to his knees hard, handicapped by the shackles, wincing and biting his lip against the shock of hitting the marble floor. He kept his head bowed and prayed to the Valar that he behave honourably, regardless of the outcome of this interview.

Denethor extended the hand that bore the ring of office towards Boromir, but kept his eyes on the youth. Boromir bent and kissed his father's ring, straightened and stepped to the side after handing his father the leather puzzle case.

The Steward turned the case over in his hands, and examined it before speaking. "Cadet Greyvale, I am given to understand that you disobeyed a direct order by the Captain-General to open this, even after having been told that it was a matter of national security that my son have the contents."

"Yes, my Lord." Daeron wondered how he managed to get the words out through his chattering teeth.

"And you did this in full knowledge of the consequences of such disobedience."

"Yes, I did, my Lord."

The Steward continued, "This seems quite at odds with your past performance, cadet. Why have you refused--twice--to open this--puzzle--and to turn over Lieutenant Bandarel's final commission to the Captain General?"

Daeron answered, "I swore an oath, my Lord, to -- Lieutenant -- Bandarel, to give the contents into your hands only."

Denethor raised an eyebrow and stared hard at the boy, taking in the visible signs of abuse and the look of exhaustion on his face. Daeron's posture made it plain that he was still feeling the effects of the flogging. "So, if I ordered you to open the case and give the contents to my son, you would refuse to do so? Refuse the order of your Steward?"

Daeron hesitated before answering as a part of his brain screamed _"Obey the Steward! Don't be an idiot! Obey the Steward!"_ but he squashed it, raised his head and looked Denethor in the eye. In the steadiest voice he could manage, he answered, "Yes, my Lord. My oath is to give the contents only into your hands."

Denethor turned his head and glanced at Boromir, then nodded towards the guard who stood behind Daeron. "Release Cadet Greyvale's hands."

Boromir frowned and shifted his weight as if to step towards the cadet. _What was his father doing?_

The guard unfastened the shackles and Daeron winced as he let his hands fall to his sides. _I'm not dead yet, so I suppose that's something_. he thought as his hands tingled with returning circulation.

The tension in the room was palpable and Daeron made himself keep his hands at his sides, not bringing them together to rub his sore wrists as he so wanted to do.

Denethor got to his feet and came down the two steps that supported the Steward's chair and halted right in front of Daeron. He held out the puzzle case towards him. "Cadet, open the case and fulfill your oath."

Daeron raised shaking hands to take the case from the Steward and took a deep breath. It took several minutes to manipulate the case in order to get it open because his hands weren't being cooperative, but finally, the true lid fell away and he pulled out the small sealed pouch. He held it up, placed it and the case in Lord Denethor's hands, then bowed his head and returned his hands to his sides. He felt lightheaded from relief to have fulfilled his oath to Bandarel, but at the same time he was filled with trepidation as to what was to happen next.

The Steward turned back towards his chair, examining the seal on the pouch, holding the opened case in his other hand, and then, as he seated himself, he handed the pouch unopened, to Boromir. Resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, he propped up his chin on his fist and looked down at Daeron, turning the puzzle case over in his fingers as he did so. "Cadet Greyvale, tell me, what made you so determined to keep to your oath to Lieutenant Bandarel?"

"Lieutenant Bandarel told me once, 'Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will, for reputation is what others believe you to be. Honour is what you are. It is the thing that separates the knight from the brigand.'" Daeron paused, trying to find the words he wanted. "He told me that keeping my honour wouldn't be easy or straightforward, and that I'd have to choose every day, every hour, with every decision I make to keep it or to compromise it. He said that I would have to live with any breach of my honour for the rest of my life as a sin committed without any hope of absolution. " He shook his head and shrugged helplessly; this was part of it but there weren't words to truly explain his reasoning.

Denethor nodded slowly. "Without honour, we are no better than animals. It seems that you have learned a very hard lesson, cadet. And lived up to the spirit of the oath that you swore to me." He glanced at Boromir, "if not precisely to the letter of it."

Boromir shifted uneasily under the look his father gave him, suddenly remembering not a few times that he'd chosen to follow the spirit instead of the letter of the law.

Daeron relaxed minutely, but said nothing. He was bemused by the expression that had flitted over Lord Boromir's face but had no time to think about what it might mean as the Steward spoke again.

"We owe you an apology, Cadet. Had the right questions been asked at the time that you were asked to turn over the--delivery--you would not have been required to break the regulations in order to keep from breaking your honor. Therefore, I am commuting your punishment to time served. And I would like to learn more about this puzzle case of yours." He smiled at Daeron. "I believe that they might be of use for Lieutenant Bandarel's fellow officers."

Stunned, Daeron took some moments to process the Steward's words. Licking his suddenly dry lips, he said, "I will be glad to teach you about the case, my Lord. But..." He stopped speaking, straightened his back, and then continued, "I would prefer to complete the sentence, my Lord. I did disobey Lord Boromir's orders. It wouldn't be honourable not to complete the term of punishment."

Daeron heard the guard behind him shift as if surprised and waited quietly for the Steward's response.

A look of respect appeared on Denethor's face. "Then, Cadet Greyvale, after you show me the secret of this," he held out the puzzle case towards the youth, "you will be returned to your labours on the Pelennor." Denethor beckoned Daeron forward and turned in his chair so that his shoulder blocked Boromir's view of what the cadet did to the puzzle case.

Daeron clumsily rose to his feet, and carefully mounted the steps to stand before the Steward and demonstrated the necessary actions to open and close the case. Denethor watched closely and repeated motions, fumbling once but then correcting himself.

Boromir, his curiosity getting the better of him, approached and tried to peer over his father's shoulder.

"As you were, Captain-General. If you do not know how to open this, perhaps the key to my brandy cabinet will remain safe from your fingers." Denethor exchanged a glance with Daeron that had a touch of mischief in it as he said the final words.

Daeron couldn't help but smile at the Steward's words and Boromir's abashed reaction.

After Daeron was certain the Steward had mastered the trick to the case, he returned to his previous place and put his hands behind his back so the guard could replace the shackles.

Denethor tucked the case into a pocket of his robe. "Thank you, Cadet Greyvale. When you have completed your sentence, I would like to commission you to make a case for each of my sons--large enough to carry a folded dispatch, perhaps."

"Gladly, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord," he answered with a bow of his head as the guard replaced the shackles about his wrists; this time making sure to put them over the sleeves of the tunic Daeron wore and closing them carefully instead of carelessly snapping them shut as had been done on every other occasion.

"Guards, escort Cadet Greyvale back to his duties. Captain-General, please remain." The tone of his voice made it plain that Boromir had no choice but to stay.

Once the doors to the hall had been closed behind them, Daeron bit back a laugh as one of his guards informed the two that stood on either side of the doors that the Steward's Heir was likely to find himself parboiled in the hot water he'd landed himself in, and a quiet bet exchanged hands before he was led down the corridor.

* * *

Boromir entered his office with the same expression as that of a cat which had a close encounter with a rain barrel.

Laedren stood up from the desk where he had been poring over a map, and bowed his head to Boromir. "Ori, what happened?"

Boromir ran his hand through his hair and dropped into the nearest chair. "One has just been informed in one's sire's _most_ inimitable fashion that one has been an idiot. And that was the least negative of the adjectives used."

"Ah." Laedren wanted to ask after his son, but instead asked, "For any particular thing or just in general?" He twirled the calipers between his fingers, the only outward sign of his inner worries.

"For being so stupid as to jump to conclusions without cause, for being blind to the necessity to ask questions, and acting in such a way as to put my best friend's son through hell on earth because of it. " He shook his head. "I can't think of a time when I've made a worse mistake."

Laedren looked over at his Captain-General but said nothing.

Boromir took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Laedren's eyes. "Father commuted the sentence to time served but Daeron insisted on completing the term. He said that since he did disobey my orders, he was honour-bound to complete it. It's obvious someone has beaten him up since he was brought back to the City. Oh, Gods, Laedren. I'm _sorry_!"

Laedren abruptly sat down in the desk chair, the calipers clattering on the desktop. "You said he insisted on finishing it? Even though--?" He broke off, and bowed his head. His shoulders shook as he pressed a hand against his chest.

"Yes. I _will_ have one of my agents keep an eye on him. If any of the other men..." Boromir trailed off and crossed the room to drop to his knees beside Laedren. "Oh, gods. 'Dren? 'Dren? I-I-I've never seen such an honourable man as your son. If I could turn time back..."

Laedren looked up, his face wet. "Ori, my heart feels like it could burst--I've _never_ been so proud of him, not even when your father gave him his sword."

Boromir was speechless with regret, with anger at his careless handling of the situation, and with admiration for the young cadet who was paying the price. Then the silence was shattered by a knock on the office door and, Boromir climbed to his feet, turning towards the door.

Laedren quickly swiped at his tear wet cheeks and got up and moved to stand staring out the window as he got himself under control. He blinked as he watched the grey-clad figure of his son, escorted by two guards, approach the tunnel that led to the sixth level. The young man was in chains, yes, but his shoulders were back and his head was up, casting a last glance up at the windows of the citadel.

Laedren drew himself to attention and gave his son a salute, even as Boromir commanded the visitor to enter.

The visitor was quickly dealt with and dismissed. Boromir joined Laedren at the window in time to see Daeron and the guard enter the gate on the fifth level. Once they were out of sight he turned to his friend and Aide and quietly asked, "Are we well?"

Laedren put his hand on Boromir's arm and answered, "Yes, my friend, we are well."

* * *

Daeron entered the cadet barracks with trepidation. It had been a horribly difficult month completing his sentence, but he didn't regret his decision to turn down Lord Denethor's offered commutation. He had no idea whether he'd be a pariah or if his friends would accept him back after all that had happened.

He most definitely didn't expect to find the entire cadet corps lined up on each side of the senior barracks at attention when he opened the door; nor to hear Halmir call, "Present arms!" and salute him. They held the salute until he returned it with a bemused expression. Then he found himself mobbed as Halmir called, "Order arms! Company, fall out!"

He was overwhelmed by the welcome and was relieved when Gharal broke it up and sent the lower year students back to their own barracks. Once the last of them had gone, the other members of his year offered their personal welcomes and retired to their usual groups to give him time with his friends.

"This, this wasn't what I expected," he said to Halmir. "I don't understand. I thought…"

Val interrupted, "You thought you'd be a pariah because you dishonoured our class? Oh, Daeron!"

Halmir shot Val a look that plainly said _shut up already! _and answered Daeron. "My oldest brother shares quarters with one of the men who stood guard in the Hall of Kings the day you were taken to Lord Denethor. He told Kal what happened and Kal told me. He also told anyone who would listen that you turned down a commutation of the sentence."

Gharal broke in then. "Daeron, you didn't dishonour our class at all. There isn't a man in the Guard who thinks you're anything but honourable, and they'd go to blows with anyone who intimated otherwise."

"Face it Daeron," Halmir said, "You couldn't have been more honourable if you tried. You could have taken the commutation but you didn't. You kept a death bed oath in spite of having to defy the Captain-General to do so. You're going to be held up as an example of exactly what a cadet should be. What a soldier of Gondor should be."

Daeron couldn't say a word. This was far, far from what he'd expected his return to the barracks to be. His head was reeling trying to take it all in.

"You're almost out of uniform," Grethen said suddenly, trying to lighten the mood as he unsuccessfully attempted to pinch the fabric of Daeron's uniform tunic. The month of hard labour had developed his muscles even more than three and a half years of throwing a sword around the training grounds had, and the fabric was visibly strained where it stretched across his shoulders. "Don't worry, I'll lend you a couple of my tunics until you can get a new issue." Given that the other cadet was still a good six inches taller than Daeron, the offer led to some hilarity from the others.

"I think I'll just see the quartermaster in the morning, but thanks." Daeron responded. Speaking of uniforms made him recall that he'd left his bedroll and pack at the campsite. He looked down the aisle and saw that nothing sat on top of the footlocker at the foot of his bunk, which had been made up and looked like an illustration in a training manual. "Do you know what happened to my gear? I left it at…"

"I believe you might be looking for this?"

Daeron turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw his father, who was in his full dress uniform standing in the doorway, Daeron's pack in his hands. Beside him stood Lord Boromir, also in full dress and wearing the Horn of Gondor at his waist.

Someone, Daeron didn't know who, called the barracks to attention.

"As you were, cadets," Boromir told them and gestured Laedren forward.

Halmir and the others stepped back giving Daeron space as Laedren dropped the pack to the floor next to Daeron and then embraced him.

"I cannot tell you just how proud I am of you, son," Laedren told him as he stepped back to look Daeron in the eye. "I just don't have the words. Welcome back."

"I was afraid you…" Daeron trailed off and hugged his father again, regardless of the presence of his peers. "When I saw your face that day. I wanted to explain but…"

"There's no need for explanations. Here, I think you'll want this back." Laedren handed Daeron his daybook with a smile.

Boromir had waited to the side as Laedren greeted his son but now stepped forward. "You'll want these back as well. A soon-to-be Knight of Gondor needs his weapons."

Daeron turned and saw that the Captain-General carried the sword belt that had been taken from him in the command tent on the steading. "My Lord--"

Boromir raised his voice, gaining the attention of all in the barracks. "Will you accept my apology for my error which led to your unjust punishment? A commander has an obligation to his men, to act himself in an honourable fashion, to trust his men, to look at the full picture before jumping to conclusions. A month ago I failed you, by letting my emotions rule me, a lapse that I promise you, and all the other men under me, that I will do all in my power not to repeat. Will you take back your sword from my hands, Cadet Greyvale, and carry it in defense of Gondor?"

Daeron drew himself to attention, met his Captain-General's eyes with confidence and held out his hands for the sword belt. "Yes, I will, my Lord!"

TBC

_Author's Note: All Bandarel's quotations are paraphrases from Lois McMaster Bujold's Vor series (read her books, they're great!) except for the final one. The final quote of Bandarel's in Daeron's daybook is actually a paraphrase from President Jimmy Carter's farewell address._


	7. Waiting for Tomorrow

_Author's Note: Thanks to my dearest twin sister and co-author/beta for this chapter, Rhyselle. What would I do without you? _

_Disclaimer: The characters, events and places you recognize are copyright to J.R.R. Tolkien, his estate and heirs, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema, and their licensees. Any characters, events or places you don't recognize are my own creation and copyrighted to me._

_Dedicated to Ithil-Valon and Ellyn who wanted to know what happened to a certain noble nose._

* * *

**Though Daeron's Eyes: Waiting For Tomorrow**

_By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle_

* * *

Laedren looked a bit wild-eyed as he burst into Boromir's study, startling the Captain-General and sending him to his feet in concern.

"It's begun, Ori!"

Boromir couldn't help but cast an eye out the window overlooking the Pelennor and the ruins of Osgiliath in the distance beneath a lowering grey sky, but there appeared to be no sign of a besieging force sent out by the Enemy this particular afternoon. Then, as he looked fully at his best friend and adjutant, he realized that the uncharacteristic panic held overtones of joy amid the fear. He rounded the desk to catch Laedren by the arm. "You're not making sense, 'Dren. What's begun?"

"Meriel! The baby!"

"Well, by the gods, man, what are you still doing here?" Boromir called for his secretary and told him to cancel all of his appointments for the rest of the day and all of the next, and that if a true crisis occurred requiring his presence, he could be found at the Greyvale townhouse on the sixth level.

He was secretly amused at how the incipient arrival of a new life on Arda had turned his efficient and confidant adjutant into this quaking mass of nerves. "Come on, 'Dren. Let's get you home to await the birth--and collect Daeron on the way. He's more than grown enough to deal with this, I expect."

* * *

Daeron was in the training yard, drilling his squad under the supervision of the Master-at-Arms when the non-commissioned officer suddenly bellowed: "Atten-SHUN!"

The senior cadet snapped to and saw that the Steward's heir had entered the training yard from the archway that led to the Military Academy offices.

"As you were. Master Sergeant, I need to speak with Cadet Greyvale."

Daeron called his assistant squad leader forward to supervise the younger cadets in their drill and formation.

"What's going on, Daeron?" Grethen whispered as he saluted Daeron, taking over the unit.

"Don't know. If I'm not back soon, give them an hour of sparring practice before supper, would you?"

"Yes, sir!" Grethen's lips quirked into a slight grin as he responded then pivoted to order the squad into a new drill.

Daeron hurried to where Lord Boromir waited, came to a smooth halt and saluted. "Reporting as ordered, sir."

"You are released from duty for the rest of this day and the next two days hence, cadet." Boromir's professional mien slipped into a smile. "You're about to become a big brother, Daeron, gods willing. Now fetch your kit from the barracks and report to the Commandant's office to get your pass in ten minutes. Your father is already there."

It lacked but one minute from the appointed time when Daeron gave the regulation three knocks on the door frame of the Academy Commandant's door, and announced, "Cadet Greyvale, reporting as ordered, sir."

"Enter, Cadet."

Daeron snapped to attention the required distance from the desk and saluted.

"At ease." The Commandant was smiling as he finished penning the pass. "You are due back here at sunset three days hence--hopefully, with good news to share. Who have you assigned to take over your squad?"

"Cadet Grethen Arasleth, my assistant squad leader, is taking it over, sir," he told the Commandant, and was relieved to receive an approving nod in reply.

"Very well. Was Cadet Arasleth your choice, or did you take advice?"

"Both, sir. I made the decision, but I thought about the discussion that the Master Sergeant and I had during our last evaluation about each of my options if I would ever have to turn my squad over to someone else."

"Good." The Commandant got to his feet. "You are dismissed to be with your family." He returned Daeron's salute before turning towards a still agitated Laedren, who stood next to Boromir near the doorway. "I look forward to offering congratulations, Captain Greyvale. And, as always, Captain-General, we are at your service."

Boromir returned the Commandant's salute, gave Laedren a nudge towards the door, and a light comradely slap to the teenager's shoulder. "Let's get your father home before the babe gets there first."

Daeron was bemused by his father's obviously distracted state as he collected his kitbag and walked on his father's left while Lord Boromir framed Laedren on the right. As they passed through the arch of the Academy grounds that led to the main street, Laedren commented a bit testily, "I'm not going to pass out, Ori. I didn't last time."

Boromir smirked a bit. "Well, not until you'd had a few too many celebratory cups when the troops were toasting young Daeron's arrival." He grinned hugely and winked at Daeron. "We had to carry you back home from the barracks, if I recall."

Daeron stifled a snicker, but his eyes danced at the idea of his sober, honourable father being drunk. He couldn't ever remember ever seeing his father in the condition that Halmir inelegantly referred to as 'rat-arsed'.

"Not true. I had my feet on the ground the whole time." Laedren retorted then he turned his head and smiled at his heir. "You were--and still are--something to celebrate."

* * *

Some minutes later Laedren opened the door to the house to find things in an uproar. The housekeeper was standing on the second to lowest step of the stairs to the upper floor giving a piece of her mind to the butler as two maids pushed by carrying armfuls of linen and hurried upstairs. He stared at the chaos for a moment and then headed for the stairs, intending on pushing his way past the two senior servants.

Boromir reached out and grabbed his adjutant by the shoulder as Daeron closed the door and winced at the noise level in the entryway. "I don't recommend that 'Dren,"

The argument between the housekeeper and the butler had left specifics and was turning personal and much louder.

"_ENOUGH!_" Boromir's bellow silenced everyone.

The housekeeper blinked with surprise then stared at the Steward's Heir, her mouth hanging open and the beginnings of an expression of dread on her face. The butler was in a similar state.

Daeron grinned and deposited his kit bag in the hands of the butler. "There'll be three to supper, Bendrel."

"Where is Meriel?" Laedren looked up the stairs, "Have the midwives been called?"

The housekeeper managed to pull herself together enough to answer. "Lady Meriel is in her room, my Lord. The midwife should be here any time now. Lady Penraen is with her." The woman concluded her statement with a sniff, having been summarily ejected from the bedroom by Halmir's mother.

Laedren looked at Boromir. "I'm going up to tell my wife we are here. I'll be back in a moment."

Boromir looked askance at his adjutant then nodded, warning him, "If you're not back in five minutes I'm coming to retrieve you."

The lord of the house nodded back and pushed past the housekeeper, his boot heels loud on the stone steps. Daeron looked up the stairwell after his father, biting his lower lip; uncertain as to whether he really wanted to be anywhere near his mother's bedroom. He was relieved of the necessity to make the decision when Boromir clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Let's wait in your father's study. He's got a time glass there, if I recall."

Daeron nodded and turned down the corridor towards the back of the house. He had been excited about the idea of having a little brother or sister after all the years of being an only, and sometimes lonely, child. But the feeling of tension that filled the townhouse reminded him that childbirth sometimes ended tragically.

Boromir, who seldom missed anything, noted the flash of worry that crossed Daeron's face. "Perhaps I should have just kept both of you up at the Citadel until it was over. Might have been a bit quieter, eh?" he asked with a lifted eyebrow.

Daeron couldn't help grinning again. "It certainly couldn't be any louder, sir--unless the pages were trying to make mead again," referring to a memorable day five years past when he'd been shadowing Laedren as he did his duties in the Citadel and there'd been a BOOM! that broke out three windows in the pages' dormitory and shook the walls of the White Tower.

"True... Oh, that reminds me. Daeron, I need someone sent up to the Citadel to fetch something back from my rooms. I didn't think to grab it while I was getting your father out of there." Boromir sat down at Laedren's desk and after rummaging for a moment, pulled a piece of parchment from a drawer.

"Certainly, I'll have Bendrel send someone." While Boromir wrote—or more accurately, scrawled—his note, Daeron went to the bell pull by the door and gave it a yank. "Are you hungry, my Lord?"

"Something to drink would be good," Boromir answered absently. He then bit off a curse as the excess sealing wax scorched his ring finger when he pressed the signet down on the melted green puddle on the parchment.

Daeron grabbed the carafe of water from the small table near the door and one of the polishing cloths that had ended up on top of the dented greave that lay on the mantel and carried them over to Boromir. "I'm glad to know I'm not the only person who does that."

"I'm amazed I have any hair left on my hands after all these years. My brother keeps telling me to take the ring off to use it, but generally I just can't be bothered to do it." He smiled at Daeron as he blotted the burn with cold water. "Maybe in a few decades your younger brother will be telling you how to do things, like mine does."

There was a knock at the door and Bendrel opened it a moment later, looking rather put upon. Daeron looked up. "Oh, good. Bendrel, the Captain-General needs something fetched from the Citadel. And if you'd get some wine for our guest and my father, I'd appreciate it."

Boromir held out the folded and sealed parchment. "Whomever you send is to give this to my secretary, and to wait to bring a parcel back to this house."

Bendrel took the note and bowed. "Yes, my lord. I'll send someone immediately."

Once the butler had left, Daeron looked at the time-glass on the cluttered mantel. "I think Father's been upstairs more than 5 minutes."

"Time to make good my threat." Boromir got to his feet.

* * *

Upstairs, Lady Penraen was making it clear that Laedren's five minutes were long since up. "Your Lady will be fine, my Lord. Now get yourself downstairs where you belong. We have work to do!"

Meriel winced as another contraction hit and Laedren pressed a final kiss to his wife's lips. "I love you," he whispered into her ear as he stroked his hand along her dark hair and inhaled the scent of her perfumed skin--making a memory--just in case... He ruthlessly cut off that thought and squeezed her hand gently, reluctant to leave her.

"I love you, my darling. I promise you, both of us will be fine." she squeezed his hand back and placed her other hand on her rounded belly. "I think I hear Ori coming after you..."

Laedren stepped back from the side of the bed and allowed Lady Penraen to successfully herd him to and through the door, just as Boromir appeared at the top of the steps.

"Ah, so I won't have to risk the wrath of the ladies this time. Come."

Laedren couldn't help look back at the closed door of the bedroom and then sighed and paid attention to where he was putting his feet on the stairs. "I don't remember being this worried last time."

"You were plenty worried last time, 'Dren," Boromir answered. "It's just that you know more now then you did then."

"Sometimes ignorance is bliss." He grinned weakly and turned down the corridor towards his study.

Boromir snorted, "I can agree with that."

A maidservant with a tray of white cakes and a bottle of wine was coming towards the study from the other end of the corridor and bobbed a curtsey to the pair, ducking her head shyly.

Boromir continued. "There's one good thing about the timing of this; I don't have to sit in the Merethrond and listen to that hypocritical ambassador from Pelargir rhapsodize over his Lord's marriageable daughter."

"You know you're not going to escape forever, Ori." Laedren held the door open for the maid and waved Boromir into the study. "Your mother told me to tell you she loves you, Daeron, and not to worry."

Daeron couldn't hide his relief as he looked up from where he sat on the battered leather hassock by the fireplace. He'd gotten one of the servants to retrieve his leatherworking kit from his bag, and already leather shavings were scattered on the floor around his feet.

Boromir skirted the maid, who was laying the plate of cakes and the wine and goblets onto the desktop, and peered at what Daeron had in his hands. "What's this going to be?"

"A bracelet, for my new sibling." The small strip of leather was barely a half an inch wide and already the fine outlines of the Greyvale sword and rose branch were beginning to take shape.

"Very nice."

"Thank you." Daeron looked at the small piece of leather and sighed. "I wish..."

"What, Daeron?" Laedren handed Boromir a cup of wine, and turned back to make up a cup of watered vintage for his son, but kept his attention on the youth.

"That there was something I could do for mother, right now."

"We all feel that way, Daeron. Your father and I felt that way when you were on your way into Arda," Boromir told him.

"Hopefully, this little one won't take as long as you did," Laedren said, handing the second cup to Daeron.

"I'll second that," Boromir said. "I thought we were going to have to tie you to your chair at one point."

"You did not, Ori."

"I didn't say we did it. I said we thought we would have to. Considering that my father was present..."

Laedren stopped in the midst of pouring his own wine. "Valar! I forgot to send a message to Lord Denethor!"

Daeron was bemused by the idea that the Steward was present in the house while he was being born.

"I took care of it, 'Dren. He's tied up with that ambassador from Pelargir for the rest of the afternoon as I told you before." Boromir snagged two cakes from the tray and tossed one towards Daeron. "He'll probably arrive once he manages to shove the fellow off onto the Chamberlain."

Daeron's father sighed, then finished filling his cup and sank down into the desk chair, cradling the goblet in both hands. "I can't seem to keep anything straight in my head today!"

Daeron looked at the cup he held for another moment and set it aside before bending over the bracelet again. Carving leather had kept his mind from worrying when out on field exercises and during the more difficult times of his Academy career. Surely, it would let him avoid thinking of all the things that might go wrong?

"Where's your Battle set, 'Dren? You owe me a rematch after you trounced me last time," Boromir said as he sat down in his usual chair.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor and the harping voice of the housekeeper could be heard amidst the hub-bub.

"Well, that can't be my father, unless he's just dropped the ambassador off of the ramparts in disgust," Boromir commented, setting up his side of the board that Laedren set on the desk between them.

Then something banged against the study door and Daeron belatedly bit back a curse as his knife slipped. He stared at the gouge that now marred the bracelet. Unfortunately, unlike his father's bracers, which Laedren still wore daily, this was not repairable.

The commotion outside the door lessened in volume as the perpetrators moved down the corridor. From the sound of the voices, it appeared that the midwives had arrived in force and loud opinions.

Daeron started to reach for anther strip of leather but dropped it back in the box as soon as he picked it up. This wasn't going to work. He was too worried, and not just about his mother. His father had never been this tense and afraid that Daeron could ever remember. Laedren, most uncharacteristically, hadn't even raised an eyebrow at the curse word that had slipped out of Daeron's mouth before he managed to bite his lip over the others that were following it.

"Are you sure you want to make that particular move, 'Dren?" Boromir inquired.

Laedren dragged his attention from listening for what could be heard through the stone construction of the house back to the board to find that he'd placed one of his knights in a position that would cause him to lose his own King. "No, although it would have guaranteed you that win I owe you." He adjusted the position of the knight and took another sip of the wine, not really tasting it.

"Ah, well." Boromir moved his Tower and neatly captured Laedren's Steward. "Then I shall have to take my consolation by taking a lesser prize."

* * *

The log in the fireplace crumbled in a shower of sparks as Daeron returned his book, still unread, to the shelf. The intermittent muffled sounds from upstairs were unnerving, and a part of him wished that he were back at the barracks with Halmir and his other friends and classmates. The light from the window was a brilliant combination of reds and oranges as the sun set. Before he settled himself again Daeron pulled the drapes closed, leaving the room lit only by lamps and firelight.

Laedren sighed and tipped over his King. "I'm just not able to concentrate, Ori. You've just set a record for beating me. Five games in a row."

Boromir shrugged. "Well, you are rather distracted."

Laedren grinned ruefully at Daeron. "His last record was three in a row--and that was the night you were born."

Daeron smiled back at his father and walked over to where the two men were sitting. "That's definitely more times than I've ever beaten you."

Laedren began to say something but was interrupted by a knock on the study door. Daeron jumped at the sound and looked at the door warily.

The door opened, revealing the Bendrel. "My lord, the Lord Steward has arrived."

Denethor's rich voice sounded from the corridor, "I assume I'm not too late?"

Bendrel ushered in the Steward, who was wearing, instead of his trademark fur trimmed robe, an elegant knee-length tunic made of crisp black linen, matching trousers and a cloak which was embroidered with silver stars and ivy leaves along the edges. Tucked into the elbow of his left arm, cradled as if it were an infant, was a carefully wrapped wine bottle.

Daeron bowed to the Steward and tried not stare as he straightened.

Laedren and Boromir stood up from their chairs and bowed. Denethor nodded and approached the two men. "Good day to you, Laedren, Eru bless all in this house, particularly your lady wife. I was passing your apartments, Boromir, when the messenger arrived, so I decided to collect your gift and bring it myself."

"Many thanks, father" Boromir accepted the bottle from his father and turned to Laedren. "Here is a bottle of the current pressing for the new babe's coming of age. It won't be long before you can decant the other now, will it not?

Laedren smiled as he took the new bottle into his hands, "No, not long at all." He looked at Daeron, pride in his eyes. "Not long at all."

Daeron looked from his father to Lord Boromir and back but didn't know what to say.

Denethor then beckoned to Daeron. "Come, sit by me and tell me what has been going on at the Military Academy. How do you find being a senior cadet compared to your earlier years there?"

Daeron obeyed, dropping onto the ottoman by the Steward's chair. "It's easier, and it's harder, my Lord."

"In what way?" Denethor's interest was real, not feigned, and he waited for Daeron's answer.

Laedren began to put the Battle pieces back in their places on the board, one by one as Daeron paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking. "Well, its gotten easier as far as the physical requirements. But it's harder now that I have to think of my squad instead of just myself when I make a decision."

The Steward nodded. "As you advance in the Army, it will continue that way, with more and more souls that you will be responsible for."

"I know, sir. I just wonder if I'm making the right decisions. Sometimes..."

Denethor remained encouragingly quiet, waiting for the youth to finish his thought.

"…it seems like no matter which way I decide, nothing good is going to come of it."

"Ah, that's the rub." Denethor glanced over to Boromir and Laedren for a moment before continuing to speak. "Sometimes we must choose the lesser of two bad choices rather than a good choice over a bad."

Daeron nodded. "Exactly. I expect that when I go back to the barracks I'm going to be facing the fallout from a 'lesser of two evils' decision."

"Oh? Would you care to tell me about it?"

Laedren shook his head and glanced at Boromir, wondering what he thought of the Steward's interest in Daeron's opinions and thoughts. Boromir had his eyes on the game board.

"I had to choose one of my classmates as my deputy, and my best friend thinks I should have chosen him instead of the cadet I eventually picked. He hasn't said anything about it yet, but I could definitely read his expression as I got my kit together."

Denethor rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Knowing that he was unhappy about it, would you change your mind if you had to make the choice again?"

Daeron considered the matter then answered. "No, sir. Halmir's a good friend but he's too impatient with the younger cadets. Grethen is much better at dealing with them and getting the best out of them. But, I hate making my best friend unhappy."

Laedren asked, "If Grethen's strength is patience, what strengths does Halmir have?"

Daeron looked towards his father, thinking hard. "He's phenomenal at reconnaissance. He just sort of disappears into the ground and reappears a few hours later with information. And I know he's taught a couple of the younger cadets some of how he does it. He's tried to teach me but I'm too noisy."

Boromir perked up at that. "How is he with a bow?"

"He's the best in our class. He's been changing over to shoot left handed for the past six months and he's just as good as with his right hand."

"Ambidextrous--that would come in handy. Father? It sounds as if we have a prospective Ranger at hand." Boromir handed Laedren a Battle pawn that had fallen from the desktop.

Daeron's expression lightened, "That would be perfect for Halmir. He really despises drill and formation."

Boromir snickered, "That sounds like someone else we know."

"Your brother doesn't despise drill and formation," Denethor told his son, "He _abhors_ it."

Laedren laughed. "Well, I abhorred that six months I spent in Ithilien. The very trees will attack you and no matter how careful you are there's always the poison ivy."

"Oh, the poison ivy--now there's a story!" Boromir glanced at Laedren for permission to tell it.

Laedren sighed resignedly and reached for his cup. "Go ahead, Ori."

"Well, there we were, less than a week in Ithilien, and, I swear, the vegetation had it in for us from the first step we took across Anduin..." Boromir spun the tale, his sense of the ridiculous easily drawing out the humor from what was in reality a very uncomfortable and very dangerous posting.

Daeron rose and got another cup from the sideboard and carried it and the bottle of white wine over to Lord Denethor, while listening to the tale.

"Thank you, child," he said quietly, accepting the cup, enjoying listening to Boromir's voice.

Daeron returned to his seat on the hassock, finding himself laughing hard enough to make his ribs ache at one point.

"... And that was the last time they sent your father and me out to forage for greens to augment our porridge and lentils!" Boromir concluded.

"Are you certain you didn't do it on purpose?" Denethor asked with a raised eyebrow.

Boromir gave a well-practiced innocent "who me" look that even got the distracted Laedren to laughing.

"Well, Ori. I have to say that it was only marginally worse than the time you were on the Searcher and going after those smugglers," Laedren said.

Boromir groaned, "Oh, yes. The Searcher. A garbage scow ready for scrapping and she's sent out after smugglers out of Pelargir." He took a swallow of wine as if to fortify himself. "Between seasickness, an incompetent cook, and spending more time bailing than sailing, it's a wonder I ever made it back home. An utterly loathsome assignment, that one."

* * *

Some four hours later, Daeron sat on the floor, dozing, leaning against the side of Denethor's chair while Ori and Laedren attempted to play yet another game of Battle. The sixteen-year-old had drowsed off a few times earlier in the evening, his head nodding for some few minutes and then jerking himself awake. But his had been an early rising, as was usual in the Academy, and until his Father and Lord Boromir had come to fetch him in the afternoon, he'd been physically active, either sparring, doing weapons drills with his classmates, or drilling his squad of underclassmen. This time he'd given in to his weariness.

Denethor watched the younger men bent over the game board and a memory came to his mind. He glanced down at Daeron, and was surprised to see that he was finger carding the drowsing youth's dark hair. When Faramir was born, Boromir had sat at his knee like this... stubbornly waiting for his new little brother or sister, despite the late hour.

Laedren suddenly pushed back from the game board and shook his head, "I'm sorry, Ori, I just can't concentrate." He got to his feet and began to pace between the desk and the hearth.

Boromir looked at his pacing adjutant then started putting the beautifully carved pieces away. The set was made of black and white silver-veined marble and had belonged to Laedren's great-grandfather, if he recalled correctly. He was fairly sure it had been years since Laedren had lost as many games as he had this evening. He paused and looked at the slender form of the white queen that he held in his hand. The artist who created the set had draped the gown in such a way that the royal lady looked to be with expectations. Laedren had just moved the queen to prevent her capture when he threw the game.

Laedren stopped his pacing and suddenly announced, "I can't abide not knowing. I know they'll kick me out, but I'm going up to find out how Meriel fares."

Daeron jerked his head up, his father's voice waking him.

Easy, son," Denethor said quietly, "Don't hit your head on the arm of the chair."

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Daeron took a few moments to process the Steward's words. Finally, realizing that Denethor had spoken to him, he flushed and begged the Steward's pardon. Then he turned his attention to Laedren. "Father?"

Laedren hesitated on his way to the door, his expression strained and his grey eyes dark with anxiety. "I'm just going up to see how your mother is doing." He disappeared through the door into the hallway and they could hear his boot heels on the marble steps to the upper floor.

Daeron felt his stomach clench with fear and bit his lip. The last time he'd seen his father looking like this had been back when he was eight years old and was stabbed while "fighting" with Halmir.

Boromir shook his head and put the white queen away before tipping the wine bottle over his goblet. Only a trickle came out. "We'd best order some more wine for when he gets back," he observed. "He'll likely need it."

"I'll go and find Bendrel," Daeron said scrambling to his feet, suddenly needing to _do_ something--anything.

Boromir stood also, having carefully put away the white queen. "I'd better go up. Just in case the midwife knocks him unconscious."

Denethor chuckled. "Watch out, Boromir, Ioreth has a wicked right hook."

"Thank you for that information, father. I'll make sure I stay on the hallway side of the door."

Daeron looked from the Steward to the Heir and back, a look of inquiry on his face.

Denethor rubbed his left eye ruefully, and told Daeron, "I unfortunately found out about that woman's pugilistic skills when I insisted on seeing my darling Fin while Lord Boromir was on the way into Arda. Five years later, I made sure to be nowhere near the birthing room!"

Daeron couldn't help the laughter that escaped his lips. A midwife had the gall to strike the _Steward_?

Boromir, grinning at Denethor, placed his hands on Daeron's shoulders and turned him towards the door. "Go find Bendrel and have him bring that wine."

"And something to eat," Denethor added, "We do not want your father drunk when the little one arrives."

"Yes, my Lord." Daeron opened the door and stepped into a silent corridor, just ahead of the Captain-General. The noise of the servants that had been almost constant earlier in the evening had ceased. The entire house seemed to be holding its breath, he thought. He turned left, towards the door to the pantry and kitchen where Bendrel was likely to be, while Boromir turned to the right and towards the stairs up to the next floor.

* * *

Daeron found the butler in the kitchen, sitting at the big preparation table with the head cook and a couple of tankards of ale. He asked that more wine be brought to his father's study along with some food.

"Sandwiches, I think," said the cook, rising to his feet, "Fruit, and cold pudding. I'll see to it immediately, young sir."

One of the chambermaids hurried in with an empty copper vessel and went to the hearth and began to dip out the water boiling there into the oversized pitcher. "More water, they said."

Bendrel pulled the key to the wine cellar from his belt and picked up the two tankards from the table, but paused, frowning as he noticed the distraught state of the chambermaid.

She picked up the copper, protecting her hands with the folds of her apron and all but raced from the room.

Bendrel set the tankards back down and asked Daeron, "The Lebennise white, or would the guests prefer the red?"

The question distracted Daeron, who had grown pale as he realized that the chambermaid's haste and demeanor most likely meant something wasn't going well. "Bring both, please. I don't know what the Steward will want," he finally said.

Bendrel paused on his way to the entrance to the wine cellar to squeeze Daeron's shoulder with sympathy. "I know it doesn't help for me to say 'don't worry' but… Put your faith in the Valar. They'll watch over your lady mother."

Daeron nodded and left the kitchen, heading back down the empty corridor towards the study. But he didn't open the door and go into the room where the Steward waited. Instead, he continued towards the front of the house and the family's private sanctuary.

* * *

The sanctuary was small, the oak-floored chamber only large enough for about a half dozen people to kneel and pray before the altar, but it seemed to be the one place in the house that wasn't filled with the horrible feeling of tension and fear.

Daeron knelt before the altar and the presence lamp and tried to pray through the nightmarish fears that had swamped him when the maid raced out of the kitchen. There were so many things, bad things, terrible things that could happen during childbirth. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew someone whose mother had sickened, and even died, while trying to bring a new life into Arda. Halmir's Uncle Tavis had been a widower for most of Daeron's life, his lady having died of childbed fever and his newborn twin sons following her swiftly thereafter. One of the other cadets had left the academy after his mother died along with his unborn sibling after hours and hours of labour...

"Oh, please. Don't let anything happen to Mother," he prayed silently, his eyes on the presence lamp. "If she... Valar, please keep her safe. Please." He'd forgotten the formal prayers of request, the litanies he'd been taught as a small child for asking the Valar's indulgence. In his fear, he could only repeat his plea that Meriel not die.

The sound of boots carefully moving across the polished wood floor whispered behind him, and then was silenced as the wearer went gracefully to his knees at Daeron's side.

The ancient mithril presence lamp that Meriel filled with fresh oil every morning continued to flicker gently. Daeron reiterated his prayer as the middle hours of the night passed, the Steward remaining silently by his side his attention on his own silent prayers.

They remained kneeling before the small altar until suddenly sounds from the upper floor became audible.

"...no, it's too late for that...go and get Healer Adoan immediately!...make haste!" Then footsteps were hurrying down the front stairs and the front door slammed as the messenger left the house.

Daeron stiffened and looked up, pale faced, as if he could make the ceiling turn transparent and let him see what was going on in his mother's chamber. He held his breath, straining to hear more. Denethor placed his hand on Daeron's shoulder and squeezed it gently, also looking upwards, concern clearly apparent in his visage.

A door opened somewhere and a half-scream, half-groan was heard and suddenly cut off.

"Mother!" Daeron started to stand but found that Denethor's hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so. He turned to look at the Steward and tried to pull away but the sympathetic expression on the older man's face was his undoing. With a sob, Daeron crumpled.

Denethor drew the youth against himself, and stroked the tousled head as he murmured soothingly. "Ah, child, it ever is this way, we wait while they go nearly to the veil to draw our new little ones into Arda. But they do come back to us, Valar willing, bearing love in their arms."

"Always?" Daeron asked, trying to get himself back under control.

"I won't lie to you; sometimes the Valar choose to take our wives and mothers to themselves, but most of the time... the majority of the time... Yes... they are graced to come through safely."

Daeron shuddered, trying to shut his mind against the idea that his mother might never step out of that room upstairs again.

"Come, let us return to your father. At a time like this, it is better to be together than to be solitary." The Steward winced as he got to his feet, rubbing at his right hip before he gave a final bow to the presence lamp and turned towards the door, holding Daeron's arm as he did so.

* * *

"I'm sorry..." Daeron started to apologize for his--as he saw it--outburst as they left the sanctuary to return to the study, but just then the front doors opened to admit Healer Adoan and a healer-apprentice. The two men hurried up the stairs, their faces intent.

Daeron froze again for a moment but took a deep breath and continued down the hall. A part of him was embarrassed that the Steward had witnessed his breakdown but most of him was grateful for the kindness and consolation the older man had provided.

Denethor cast a glance up the stairs then continued down the hall. He opened the study door and pushed Daeron inside, following closely. "You know, I wouldn't put it past Mother Ioreth to have called Healer Adoan simply because if _she_ must be up all night, she feels he should be also!"

Daeron couldn't keep his snort of laughter in. In his opinion, Ioreth was a terror, and the stubborn old thing would certainly do something like that!

The Steward smiled, pleased his jest had the desired effect, even if the laugh had been somewhat strangled with tension. "Boromir, put that poker in the fire. I'm chilled to the bone and need some hot wine. This young man, also."

Boromir reached over from where he sat in one of the fireside chairs to do as his father asked and then indicated a tray containing enough sandwiches and other foodstuffs to feed a small regiment. "Bendrel's timing was perfect. He just delivered another tray and several bottles of wine."

Denethor sniffed, "_Another _tray? We came to support Laedren, not eat him out of house and home."

Laedren was back at the desk, his head in his hands, and his dark hair in disarray as he worked his fingers along his scalp nervously. He appeared to not have heard Denethor's acerbic comment to Boromir. Daeron sobered again at the sight of his father's distress and bit his lip before offering the news that Healer Adoan had arrived with only one apprentice and hadn't looked too worried, while Denethor looked at the labels on the wine bottles and selected one, expertly working out the cork, and pouring it into the four fresh goblets the butler had brought.

Boromir looked over at Laedren as he waited for the iron poker to heat up. "Don't look so worried 'Dren. At least if Meriel's going to punch someone it will be Ioreth, and not either of us." He tapped his slightly crooked nose with a finger and gave a crooked grin.

Laedren looked up at Boromir and then began to laugh uncontrollably. "That's true," he finally said, as the not quite hysterical reaction finally died down.

Denethor chuckled and asked if the poker was ready to warm up the wine yet.

Daeron looked from his father to Lord Boromir and back. Boromir had always refused to tell him anything concerning the events surrounding the practically legendary time that Lady Meriel had punched him and broken his nose, and done it in front of Lord Denethor! Was he finally going to tell the tale?

Boromir grinned and made a show of checking the temperature of the heating poker instead of continuing. "Father, if you'll pass me the goblets, I think this is hot enough to heat all four of them."

The Steward handed over the cups one by one, and shortly the rich aroma of hot wine filled the study. "It's about time you put young Daeron out of his misery, and finally told him the truth about why his mother broke your nose."

"Definitely past time. You're stalling, Ori. And I don't think you have ever told me the entire truth about that incident. I only came in on the last few minutes of whatever debacle you'd got yourself into," Laedren said, leaving off his nervous fidgeting and pushing himself up out of the desk chair to take a seat on the floor near the hearth. Daeron joined his father, leaving the armchairs for the Steward and Captain-General. He was still very worried about his mother but he was dying to have his curiosity assuaged at long last.

Boromir made a big show of tasting his wine and settling into a more comfortable position before beginning his story.

"You're still stalling, Ori," Laedren mock-growled. "Give."

"Well, it was Midsummer's Eve day and I think it wouldn't have happened if..." Boromir hesitated then hastily rephrased what he was going to say at the raised eyebrow his father was giving him.

"Umm, it was the midsummer before your parents got married, Daeron, and I think that every young man in the Citadel must have been carrying a torch for your mother, including your father and me. May I safely plead in my own defense that midsummer heat makes young men do very foolish things?" He looked sidewise at his father.

Denethor muttered, "I wonder what your excuse is for the foolishness you and your brother get up to in midwinter."

Daeron overheard the Steward's comment and snickered and then lost it completely when Laedren proffered "frostbite?" as a response.

Boromir's eyes flickered with laughter, but he pretended affront and drawled, "Unless one of _you_ wants to tell this story..."

Denethor snorted. "Then get on with it."

"As I was saying, midsummer heat makes young men do foolish things, especially when the intent is to try to impress a beautiful young lady. After what I have to admit in hindsight was far too much ale, about eight of us decided to serenade our chosen damsel, that being your mother."

"All eight of you decided this?" Laedren interrupted. "Ori, that's not what Meriel told me. If I recall, she said that the fiasco was your idea entirely and the other seven idiots went along with it because they didn't have the guts to tell the Heir he was making a big mistake."

Boromir didn't deign to notice his Adjutant's interruption but took another swallow of his wine and continued. "Each of us had until midafternoon to write a song or poem and serenade Lady Meriel. Apparently, she wasn't happy to be accosted throughout the afternoon by one inebriated would-be romantic poet after another, because by the time I found her walking in the gardens with my father and went to one knee to offer my contribution of a description of her beauty, she'd gotten to the end of her rope."

I read her my poem—and no, I don't remember what I wrote, by the by—and she asked me with deadly sweetness just whose idea it was to give her these 'tributes'."

Laedren was snickering not so quietly in his cup of mulled wine, and Denethor was outright grinning over his.

"Well, I was just drunk enough to tell her it had been my idea, and she hauled off and punched me in the nose." He paused while his audience recovered, and grinned at Daeron's expression. "I must say she surprised me. According to my esteemed father I knelt there wobbling and gaping like a stranded fish while blood poured from my nose all over my new festival tunic."

"He was far enough in his cups, I don't think the pain registered until Adoan had four apprentices sit on him while he reset the nose," Denethor observed. "I congratulated your mother, made certain she hadn't stained her gown and escorted her back to her father."

Daeron was clutching his sides, laughing like a drain. He could just picture the scene!

"She had to wear gloves for weeks while the bruises on her knuckles healed," Laedren remembered. "Being it was one of the hotter summers in memory, she was not happy about that."

Denethor took a long slow drink of his wine and his eyes twinkled as he looked at his son, "I can't say I blame Lady Meriel for being upset about it all. The 'poetry' offered to her was pathetically terrible--and quite embarrassing to have to listen to."

"I can only plead that I was very young and foolish," his son shrugged, still grinning.

"Of course, considering that she avoided the "poets" for several weeks thereafter only made it easier for me to spend time with her without my idiotic friends making nuisances of themselves," Laedren added, smiling at his Captain-General and friend. "Actually, Ori, you write very good poetry when you aren't in your cups. Perhaps I should be grateful that you were inebriated when you chose to write something for Meriel."'

Daeron managed to control his laughter and grinned at Boromir. "I promise that my knowledge of your youthful indiscretion will never cross my lips, sir."

"That would be deeply appreciated, Daeron." Boromir snagged a piece of bread and hard sausage from the tray and began to munch on it as he handed the platter to his father and then to Daeron, and finally to Laedren, while reminding Daeron of the adage that all soldiers should eat when food is available as one never knows when one will be short a meal in the field.

"Make that edible food, Ori," Laedren said. "Unlike you, there are some things that I wouldn't touch even if I was starving to death."

"There was nothing wrong with that stew," Ori said after swallowing his current mouthful of sausage. "It was meat, it was hot, and you didn't have to cook it yourself."

"It was _warg_, Ori!"

Denethor shuddered distastefully, "Even in my hungriest days as a soldier, I never stooped to that! Remind me to double check with the kitchens as to the menu before I accept another dinner invitation from you, Boromir,"

Daeron cringed at the mere idea of eating warg and after a moment's consideration set aside his sausage. He was in agreement with his father on this topic. There were definitely some things on Arda that weren't meant to be eaten by Men. He shook his head, "I'm sorry, sir, but even if you gave me a direct order to eat warg, I couldn't do it. Two weeks of hard labour is better than that."

Boromir shrugged and took another sandwich from the tray. "Meat is meat."

Laedren asked, "So does that mean you'd eat rump of orc if it were on offer?"

"Of course, not. I don't consider orc to be meat,"

"Then what do you consider it to be?"

"Orc is _carrion_," Boromir said with his mouth full.

Denethor coughed. "May I suggest the topic be changed before everyone but you loses their appetite, Boromir?"

The Heir shrugged and asked Daeron if he intended on finishing the sausage he'd set aside. Daeron didn't say anything but handed the plate over to the Captain-General.

Laedren shook his head tiredly, "Ori, is there _anything_ that would put you off your food?"

Boromir stopped clowning and smiled somewhat sadly. "Only the loss of someone I love. But Valar willing, I shan't have to face that anytime soon."

"Valar willing, none of us will," Laedren echoed.

"Valar willing," whispered Daeron as he got up and crossed to the desk. He was restless again but knew he wasn't in any condition to concentrate enough to go back to his leatherworking. The sight of an opened book on one corner of the desk reminded him that he still hadn't figured out an answer for the military strategy assignment he'd been given a few days ago. "Father, do you still have that big map of Lebennin?"

Laedren stifled a yawn as he got up and shuffled some rolled up scrolls in the cubbyholes along the wall behind his desk. "Here you are, Daeron. Why do you need it?" He handed it over to his son.

He accepted the map and unrolled it. "I have a military strategy assignment to finish. Halmir and I have been wrestling with it for three days and we still haven't come up with anything seems like it's going to work. I thought that if I could have a better idea of the countryside I might be able to come up with a new idea.""

Boromir put down his wine cup and leaned forward. "What's the situation?"

Denethor narrowed his eyes at his son, "You aren't to do the lad's assignment for him, Boromir."

Boromir looked affronted. "I wouldn't do that. I'm just curious."

Denethor snorted and leaned back in his chair, tipping his head back against the carved wood and closing his eyes. It had been a long time since he'd stayed awake all night on purpose.

"Lt. Bedreth told us to plan a siege of Dormaelas Keep in Lebennin."

Boromir nodded, and then glanced at Laedren as he pulled his pipe out of his belt, asking silent permission to smoke. "What's the terrain like, Daeron?"

"The keep is built into the end of the spur of the mountain and the surrounding land is pretty rough, very rocky and uneven. I don't see how you could get the materials for siege engines or even enough supply wagons there without having to build a decent road first. There's too many rapids on the Serni and the Gilraen is too shallow to move stuff efficiently by water, and then it's about two to three days forced march overland." Daeron frowned at the map.

Laedren picked up the pottery jar in which he kept his pipe weed and handed it to Boromir. "Remember what I told you about not focusing on just one way of doing things. And what is in the location that would help you but hinder them?"

"Well, I know that there's not enough arable land to support the Keep," Daeron said. "Everything has to be brought upriver by flatboat to Stonecrest and then put on packhorses to make it the rest of the way to the Keep." He sighed. "Halmir thinks that we could bring in men and materials that way but we wouldn't stand a chance."

Boromir caught up a spill from the fireplace mantle and lit his pipe, drawing on the long stem until he was sure it would not go out. "Father?" He offered the pipe weed to Denethor.

Denethor waved his hand and shook his head. "No, thank you. It's far too late, or early, for a pipe." He turned his gaze towards the fire and ignored the ongoing conversation.

Daeron scowled at the map in silence for a few minutes. It was more detailed than the one the cadets had been issued and he was mentally comparing the two. "Father, were you ever at Dormaelas Keep?"

"Hmmm?" Laedren started, his head jerking up from where it had started to nod. "What, Daeron?"

"Were you ever at Dormaelas Keep?"

"Er, Yes, some time ago. Why?" He rubbed his face and blinked at his son.

"Does the Keep get its water from wells or some other source?"

"Hmmm. Ori, you were in charge of that patrol. What do you recall?"

"Let me think," Boromir drew on his pipe and rubbed his chin as he thought. "Ah, yes. The main water supply is a large stream, or small river, take your pick, that comes down out of the mountains."

Daeron traced his finger along the line of what looked like a ravine. "Is it in this ravine, sir?"

Ori leaned over to look at the map. "Yes, that's it."

Laedren leaned forward and peered at the map, nearly knocking over his goblet. He made a fumbling grab for it in the nick of time to keep it from drenching his son. "Ack! Sorry, Daeron." Laedren moved the goblet well out of the way as Boromir snickered.

Denethor just shook his head and resumed his musings about his beloved, departed wife. He noted that things had quieted down considerably upstairs, but chose not to say anything to draw Laedren's attention to it.

Daeron had jumped back and now he returned to the desk, grinning. "It's all right. I won't tell Bendrel, if you won't." The butler was downright snobby about how wine was handled; particularly the rarer vintages like the Lebinnese red.

Boromir looked to where Daeron had put his finger on the map. "Yes, the river comes down from the upper elevations through that ravine."

"And it's the only one that actually goes to the keep. Any other streams divert--see?" Laedren pointed out the geographic features.

"How hard would it be to get say, fifteen to twenty men, and equipment into that ravine to compromise the Keep's water supply? It looks pretty steep but if you send them up the mountain here, they can follow this secondary crevice to the main ravine..." Daeron's eyes had lit up as a possible solution developed in his mind.

Laedren's eyebrows rose as he immediately absorbed Daeron's idea. "You'd want men with climbing experience and trained to be stealthy, but it could be done."

Daeron looked up at his father and Lord Boromir, frowning. "How hard would it be to find men with that kind of experience? I think they could be used to infiltrate the Keep and sabotage food stores and so forth, as well as wreck the water supply. And without water and food, the Keep would have no choice but to surrender."

"Gondor has Arda's largest standing army," Denethor commented. He hadn't opened his eyes, and looked for all the world as if he were still dozing. "We surely would be able to find the men with the skills needed. Or," he added, "We need to look at adding mountaineering to the training at the Academy and the enlisted boot camp."

Daeron couldn't help but groan at the idea of mountaineering being added to the already intense and difficult curriculum at the academy. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea then."

"Actually," Laedren said, more alert now, "It's an excellent idea. The actual execution of it might need some tweaking, but I'd be confident that it would be worth addressing."

Boromir nodded but then asked, "How are you going to keep your infiltrators from being discovered?"

Daeron frowned again, his mind busy. "I think I'd have the main siege force make an assault on the outer bailey gates and walls. If we can get a ballista or trebuchet or two in place... No, it'd be too hard to get them up river and across the plain… It would take more men…"

"What gave you the idea to prevent use of the water supply?" Boromir asked, after allowing Daeron to think for some minutes.

"Well, I remembered when we talked about the siege of Ectalabren when I was in the Houses of Healing last year. It was untakeable until the water supply and incoming food supplies were disrupted." Daeron continued, his enthusiasm growing as it seemed like this plan might be able to work, "Since pretty much everything edible has to be delivered to Dormaelas by flat boat and then packed out overland, a part of the main siege force can prevent anything from coming through."

Laedren nodded then added, "All the food you intercept can be used to augment the besieger's food supply, so you wouldn't have to worry about hauling in quite so much stuff to feed your people."

Boromir snickered, "Stuff? What happened to my 'Dren's elegant vocabulary?"

Laedren picked up his goblet and peered into it. "Got lost about the fifth cup of this Lebennin Red."

"I hadn't thought of that." Daeron turned his attention back to the map. "I'm glad you have this map. I wouldn't have known about the ravine without it. I suppose I could just set up a standard siege line and intercept the supplies coming up river, but it would take longer for things to get desperate and I might need those troops elsewhere."

Boromir turned his attention back to Daeron. "Did you think about why the Keep is where it is?"

Daeron considered and shrugged. "Not really. I don't know what is there that would need protecting."

Laedren pointed to a symbol on one of the ridges on the map. "There's the site of one of the iron mines. There's at least eight mines along this stretch of mountains."

"Oh, why didn't I notice that before?" Daeron felt sheepish.

"That's what you have an adjutant for. To remember all the things your brain is too full to hold," Boromir said with a laugh.

Laedren rolled his eyes at Boromir then looked at Daeron. "It does help if your mapmaker put a decent legend on the map, instead of assuming you know what all the little symbols mean."

"Shall we add cartography to the curriculum, too?" Ori asked, pouring more wine into his cup.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door and it was opened by Bendrel before Laedren could say "Enter." Healer Adoan stood next to the butler with a smile on his face. "Laedren, your lady would like to see you."

Denethor's eyes snapped open.

"Is she--?" Laedren scrambled to his feet, again knocking over his goblet, but thankfully it was now empty, and no threat to Daeron or Boromir.

Daeron looked between his father and the healer, holding his breath, only to release it in a sigh of relief when Adoan said, "Meriel is fine, but she has someone she wants to introduce you to."

Bendrel entered the study and opened the thick drapes that covered the window, revealing the rosy glow of dawn.

The healer barely had time to step back out of the way as Laedren grabbed Daeron's hand and dragged his son along with him and out the door, heading for the stairs.

- - - - - - - - - -

The bedroom had been cleaned up, and Ioreth and two other ladies, including Halmir's redoubtable mother, Lady Penraen, were arranging the hangings on the cradle that now stood in the corner of the room. Meriel was lying back against her pillows in a clean night gown, her hair freshly brushed and braided and a tired smile on her face.

Laedren only had eyes for his wife, and moved rapidly across the room to drop to his knees at the side of the bed, reaching out to tenderly tuck a strand of hair that had escaped the plaits behind her ear. "Are you all right, dear one?"

She held a blanket wrapped bundle close to her breast and raised her face for Laedren's kiss before answering him. "I'm fine, my love. Your daughter just wasn't sure about coming into Arda in the middle of the night and decided to wait until the sun was rising before arriving."

"A daughter," he whispered, then leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, breathing a prayer of thanks to the Valar as he did so. When he looked up he noticed that Daeron had not approached the bed. "Daeron! Don't lurk at the door. Come meet your baby sister." He smiled across the room at his son.

Daeron blushed and crossed to stand beside his father as Meriel turned the newborn little girl towards Laedren and her son. The child's eyes, surrounded by thick black eyelashes and currently a dark, dark blue, were open under a cap of black curls, and Daeron could have sworn she was laughing at him. He was smitten immediately. "She's wonderful!"

Meriel smiled and handed the infant to her husband.

Laedren slid his hands under his daughter, remembering how to support her spine and head and beamed down into her face. "What shall we name her, Meriel? She _is_ beautiful and needs a beautiful name."

"I thought we could name her Finduilas."

Her husband looked up at her and then nodded before returning his gaze to his new daughter. "Yes, that's who she is. Finduilas of Greyvale, welcome unto Arda, and a family who loves you very much."

One of the baby's hands came free of the swaddling blanket and waved about. Daeron couldn't resist touching it, enchanted when she grasped his finger tightly and refused to let go.

"Hello, little sister." Daeron smiled down at his new sister and dropped a careful kiss on her curls and carefully extricated his finger from her grasp. She immediately grabbed hold of the edge of the blanket.

"We have two guests who are just as eager to meet you as we were, little one," Laedren told Finduilas.

"Go show her off, but bring her back quickly," Meriel told him. "She will be wanting to eat soon."

"She's beautiful, mother," Daeron said, torn between wanting to stay with his mother and to see Lord Boromir's reaction.

"Come along, Daeron," Laedren had noticed that Ioreth was heading across the room towards Meriel with a determined expression on her face, her hands filled by a large silver goblet.

Daeron quickly kissed his mother and accompanied his father into the hallway, his eyes on little Finduilas.

"She's so tiny. Was I that small?"

Laedren made the return trip down the stairs at a much more moderate pace than the pell-mell rush up them. "Yes," he told Daeron, "as hard as that may be to believe. Your eyes were just this colour too, but later changed." He grinned, adding as an afterthought, "You didn't have quite as much hair, though."

Daeron laughed and stretched out his stride so that he could open the study door. The Captain-General's adjutant proudly carried his new daughter into the room, and dropped smoothly to one knee before the chair in which the Steward sat. "My lord, your goddaughter wishes you to recognize the newest member of House Greyvale." He carefully transferred his precious burden into Denethor's broad, strong hands. "Lady Finduilas of Greyvale."

Denethor stared down at the little mite, his breath caught in his throat as his heart lurched at the tribute to his beloved wife. He blinked his eyes quickly, fighting back sudden tears that he refused to let fall. "Finduilas," he whispered.

Boromir looked from the infant to Laedren at the mention of the baby's name and then to his father, his eyes full.

There was a tender smile on the Steward's lips as innocent blue eyes met tired grey ones. "Welcome to Gondor, little one. May you be as blessed and beautiful as your namesake, and may you one day give a good man as much joy as my Finduilas gave to me in our time together."

Finduilas released her grasp of the blanket edge and caught hold of a handful of the Steward's grey shot hair with a little sound that was unmistakably a laugh.

Denethor started, although his hands never faltered in holding the child.

Boromir laughed. "Well, father, it's far better than being punched in the eye!"

Laedren chuckled, "Meriel always said girls were born politer than boys. I'd say you now have proof of it, Ori."

Boromir reached over and gently untangled the tiny fingers from his father's hair. "Hello, little Fin-lass."

Denethor chuckled at the infant, and lifted her to press a kiss on her small forehead, before offering her to Boromir. "You should get in practice, my son, for the day you have an heir of your own."

Boromir made a face but didn't hesitate in taking the child into his arms. "I can only hope that any daughter of mine is as lovely as she is."

Daeron couldn't stop smiling or take his eyes off his little sister.

Boromir blessed the child with a kiss of his own and barely escaped having his beard grabbed. Denethor laughed, and commented, "Now do you see an advantage to being clean-shaven, Boromir?"

Laughter filled the study at the Steward's sally.

"I'll continue to risk my beard being pulled, Father. Daeron," Boromir said. "You haven't held your little sister."

Daeron stepped forward, suddenly nervous as the Captain-General laid Finduilas in his arms, adjusting Daeron's hold so that her head was supported by his arm. "That's the way, just like that," Boromir encouraged.

Laedren smiled with pride as his son took Finduilas into his arms.

All Daeron's nervousness melted away as she turned her innocent gaze on him. "Hello, Fin," he whispered. As he held his little sister he silently swore an oath to her pledging her his everlasting love and protection.

Smiling as if he had read Daeron's mind, Boromir placed his hand on Daeron's shoulder and spoke quietly. "Welcome to the noble Order of Big Brothers, Daeron."

TBC


	8. Rites of Passage Part 1

_Disclaimer__: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person._

**Through Daeron's Eyes – Rites of Passage, Part I**

_By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle_

Summer T.A. 3016

The senior cadets wearily stumbled into their temporary barracks, sweaty, dirty, and looking rather the worse for wear after two weeks of what Val called "the final tortures" out in the field. The grueling fortnight had taken them from Minas Tirith, up into the White Mountains, down onto the plains on the Gondorian side of the Firien Wood almost to the border of Rohan, and then cross country to Cair Andros, where various squads were given different assignments, such as search and rescue, reconnaissance missions, dealing with "ambushes" while on patrol, and so forth.

Daeron limped in almost last of all, having stayed in the stable while the farrier looked at Ruinanor's off-hind leg. They'd been run into by a bolting riderless horse while fighting free of an ambush and the larger and heavier gelding had literally knocked the bay mare off her feet. Daeron had managed to avoid becoming trapped beneath her and had kicked free of his stirrup and rolled away before she hit the ground, only to then find himself with a sword at his throat before he could scramble to his feet.

_The "enemy" solder grinned at him and held out a hand for the blue armband Daeron wore. "You're dead, cadet. Hand it over."_

_Daeron bit back a curse and untied the strip of cloth from his left arm, his eyes turning towards where Ruinanor had gotten up and was standing on three feet, her off-hind foot off the ground. "Oh, no!" _

_Ignoring the soldier, who was supposed to take him to the resurrection point, he limped over to her. He'd landed hard and knew his right leg and hip was going to be black and blue the next day but that was nothing. If the mare had been seriously damaged—he stopped that thought and took her reins before bending to look at her leg._

_There was a long wicked looking gash running down the outside of the leg which was bleeding freely. Daeron pulled out his belt knife and cut a length of cloth from the bottom of his uniform tunic, and began to bind up the leg. Luckily, the "battle" had moved away from his vicinity._

Daeron limped across the barracks to his bunk, dropped his pack on top of his trunk and fell groaning onto the mattress, barely remembering to duck his head so he wouldn't hit the frame of the upper bunk.

Halmir whistled cheerfully as he followed his bunkmate and heaved his own gear into place before leaning over and lifting Daeron's feet up onto the bunk. "Don't leave those boots out where anyone can trip on them," he teased.

Daeron just waved a tired hand at his friend and growled something unintelligible, his mind on his injured mare and all the possible complications of a leg injury.

"It should be illegal to be so cheerful and energetic after the past two weeks," Grethen said as he unbuckled his sword belt and frowned at the irrepressible cadet. "Have you set up another still that we don't know about?"

"No, but that's an idea... maybe I can figure out how to make a portable one to haul to the field…" He heaved himself up to sit on the edge of the top bunk, his feet hanging down near Daeron's head.

Val staggered in, looking as exhausted as Daeron, with a light bandage across his forehead from when he'd managed to get knocked against a tree branch during another 'ambush'.

"We've only got two weeks before we get out of here. Can you wait to build it until _after _ we graduate?" Daeron said, reaching up and pulling Halmir's left boot off.

Val dropped his pack and clasped his hand over his nose and mouth. "Ewwww. Did you _ever_ take those off since we hit the field, Halmir?"

"Of course I did. I even washed my socks," Halmir retorted.

"Gah!" Daeron sat up. "With what?"

"Smells like you used swamp water," Val began to rummage in his trunk for clean clothing and towels, intent on taking advantage of the senior class' head of the line privileges for the bathing rooms and, hopefully, hot water.

Daeron reluctantly rolled off his bunk and did likewise. Clean clothes and a long hot soak seemed like a wonderful idea right now, even if he could easily have fallen asleep just as he was, dirt, boots and all.

Halmir snorted and pulled off his other boot, eliciting glares from his mates.

"Yours won't smell any better," he predicted and jumped down, beginning to strip off the outer layers of the filthy field uniform.

Val leaned over to Daeron and whispered, "Bet you he falls asleep in the tub."

"I never bet on a sure thing," Daeron responded then limped towards the bathing rooms. "Eru, _please_ let there be hot water!"

"I know you like crawling around while on recon but did you have to bring half of the marsh back with you?" Grethen asked as he sidestepped the growing pile of laundry.

"I didn't bring back half of it," Halmir blithely said, scooping up his towel and soap. He grinned at Grethen and ducked around him to follow on Daeron's heels. "I brought _all_ of it home with me!" he added with a laugh.

"You really are in too good of a mood. Maybe we should use you to test the temperature of the water," Grethen said, snapping his towel at the slighter cadet.

Halmir yelped, dodged his massive friend, and ran into the bathing room.

When Daeron entered the bathing room Val was pouring the contents of a large copper vessel into one of the waiting tubs, sighing happily at the steam that roiled up. "Now this is more like it."

"Thank Eru," Daeron said fervently as he claimed his own tub and several coppers of water before stripping as quickly as his bruises would let him and sinking blissfully into the hot water.

Halmir paused in the filling of his own tub and winced at the purples and blues that decorated his best friend's leg and side. "I thought you were limping from blisters in your boots, Daeron. I didn't realize you were _that_ bashed up."

"I had to bail off Ruinanor when a runaway bolted straight into us and knocked her down. Of course, I landed on rocks. Then I got 'killed' before I knew which way was up." This last was said in a particularly sour voice as he'd managed to avoid getting killed throughout the entire fortnight until the mishap.

"That's rotten. Is she all right?"

"No. Her near-hind is gashed, badly. The farrier at Cair Andros stitched it up and I rode back here doubling with Grethen on that huge plough horse of his, while Ruinanor came back with the baggage wagon on a lead rein."

The nine-year old mare was Daeron's pride and joy and he was sick with worry for her. The farrier at Cair Andros hadn't been encouraging and, once they'd gotten back to Minas Tirith, the Academy farrier had shaken his head and looked grim as he replaced the bandaging on her leg.

Val gave a commiserating nod, but opined that half the senior class could ride with Grethen and the bear of a Cadet's good-natured mount wouldn't notice the additional weight. "Where did you find him, anyway, Grethen? I keep meaning to ask you and I kept forgetting."

Grethen snorted in equally good-natured amusement and tossed a soaked sponge at Val's head. "My uncle breeds draft horses up towards Dale. Asterth was born and orphaned when I was visiting him when I was 10 years old and I spent the months I was there hand-raising him. When he was four years old, uncle brought him down and gave him to me."

Val grabbed the sponge in the knick of time to avoid it impacting his skull but still ended up with a face full of soapy water when the sponge hit his open hand.

"No wonder he grew so big," Val laughed. "You must have stuffed the little fellow until he was bursting!"

Daeron just lay in the hot water with his eyes closed as his friends continued discussing the huge dapple grey.

Halmir leaned over and tapped Daeron on the shoulder. "Hey, do you need something from the infirmary for those bruises? I can get you some arnica and calendula salve if it would help."

Daeron opened his eyes and shifted in the tub, wincing as his leg complained. "Would you? I hate the thought of walking all the way across the compound. That's if I can even manage to get out of this tub..."

"Hey, what are friends for? Let me finish scrubbing my hair and I'll go get some."

"Thanks." Daeron sighed and then, taking a breath, sank until his head was submerged, sat up with another wince, and reached for the soap. Washing his hair sounded like a good idea; the last three days in the field it had gotten so disgusting that he'd been tempted to hack it off with his belt knife.

Halmir ducked under the surface to rinse his hair, and then, as he came up, flipped his hair back out of his face, eliciting a howl of protest from one of the other cadets in the neighboring row of tubs. Halmir ignored the cry of outrage and, wrapping his towel around him, headed back to his bunk to dress and go across the compound to the infirmary.

Daeron finished washing his hair and debated whether to drain the now-cooling tub and refill it with hot water. Whichever he decided it would mean moving, something he really didn't want to do.

Val reached up and fingered the bandage across his brow and sighed. "I'm not supposed to get this wet but I really want to wash my hair."

Grethen had already finished his ablutions and after wrapping a towel around his waist offered to wash Val's hair. "Just lean your head back. I think we can manage not to get the bandage wet."

Daeron groaned as he reluctantly sat up and unstoppered his tub. The water was far too cool to be comfortable now.

"Thanks. Daeron, are you doing all right?" Val asked as he did as his bunkmate suggested.

"I shouldn't have stopped moving," Daeron complained as he regarded his black and blue leg with distaste.

"You mean here, or, out there in the field?"

"Both. If I had kept on rolling I'd have knocked the fellow who 'killed' me over before he could have gotten me. If I hadn't stopped moving when we got back here, I wouldn't be so stiff."

"Ah," Val said, then spluttered as some water splashed onto his face as Grethen rinsed the dirt and dried sweat from his dark hair.

"Sorry," Grethen said as he finished. "The bandage is still dry though."

"It's all right. At least it wasn't Halmir's swamp water," Val allowed.

Grethen looked up as someone held out a dry towel. "Thanks, Gharal. I see you made it back in one piece."

"I did but my bunkmate didn't. He's still up at Cair Andros. The surgeon didn't want him to be moved yet. How did you fellows make out?"

Val drained his tub and climbed out, grabbing the towel from Grethen. "I had a close encounter with a tree, and Daeron's luck ran out too."

The door curtain rings rattled as Halmir ducked through, his hands full of several clay pots, with a couple of flasks tucked into the crooks of his elbows.

He was grinning as he carried them towards Daeron's now emptied tub. "You want a hot water refill or just a hand out of there?"

"A refill please. I don't think I can move."

Halmir set the dozen containers on the bench closest to Daeron's tub and went to haul a couple of the still nicely warm coppers over. "Hello, Gharal--Did you get your bunkmate to the surgeon all right? That was a pretty awful fall he took."

"Yes. I was just telling the others that Maurgan is still up at Cair Andros. The surgeon didn't want him moved yet. I don't think he'll be graduating with us." Gharal looked troubled. "Half the time he doesn't know where he is and he doesn't remember at lot of stuff."

That sobered Halmir and he looked down as he carefully poured the fresh water into the foot of Daeron's tub, careful not to pour it on his friend's bruised leg.

"Ahhh. Thanks, Halmir," Daeron had re-stoppered the tub and now sank back into the hot water, flexing his bruised leg carefully. "There's got to be some natural law that guarantees that when you come off your horse, you're always going to land on rocks instead of nice soft dirt or grass."

"Yes, I think you're right." Halmir sat back on his heels and reached for one of the flasks on the bench behind him, and unstoppered it. "Here, Daeron. Healer Balath said that you need to take two swallows of this while you're soaking. He said it would help."

"And there's enough arnica and calendula salve for the lot of us," he added in a louder voice to the rest of their classmates who were in varying stages of the bathing process.

Thanks came from all corners of the large room.

Daeron made a face as he took the flask. The infirmary was infamous for its foul tasting brews. They were effective but always tasted awful. But the contents of the flask were flavoured with mint and something semi-sweet that he couldn't identify. "I don't believe it. This couldn't have come from the infirmary; it tastes too good," he said, handing the flask back to Halmir.

The older youth grinned and re-stoppered it before setting it back on the bench.

"It's good to be related to a healer type," he smirked. "Balath hated how bad the potions tasted and has been working on making them more palatable."

"I owe Balath a drink of his favorite ale," Daeron said as a warm lassitude began to spread through his body.

"He likes the brew at the Three Hawks best," Halmir advised.

Val put his hands on his hips and stared at Halmir. "Only you would know what the favorite pubs were for each and every one of that horde of cousins you own."

Grethen reached for the calendula salve and grinned at Halmir, "If you had that many relatives, Val, you'd know such important information, particularly when so many of them were in positions that could prove useful or lucrative." Grethen's family was nearly as large as Halmir's so he spoke with the voice of experience.

It was only when the third year cadets started banging on the doorframe of the bathing room entrance, complaining about the amount of time the seniors were taking, and the water had cooled down completely that Daeron consented to emerge from his tub. He, Halmir, Grethen, Val, and Gharal were the only cadets left in the chamber.

Halmir scooped up the rest of the medicines and nodded for Grethen to support Daeron back into the senior barracks. "Let's get you back to your bunk before we rub this stuff into your leg. You'd better just keep the towel on for now."

"As if I'd walk around here sky-clad," Daeron snorted, securing the towel around his waist and throwing another over his shoulders to keep his wet hair from dripping down his back. "For one thing, it's too damn cold."

Halmir just laughed and motioned for the others to precede him.

Gharal had stopped just inside the doorway to their barracks, nonplussed at the sight and sound of their classmates. Cadets were searching under bunks, in trunks and behind furniture and complaining mightily. "What in Arda?"

Grethen easily pushed Gharal into the room and directed Daeron towards his bunk.

"Our boots are gone!" Lorimer growled as he straightened up from looking under his bunk. "The Master at Arms is going to be giving out demerits like Mettarë presents tomorrow if we don't get them cleaned up before morning inspection."

"Not to mention our field uniforms are missing as well," Rolin added in disgust, as he dropped down onto his trunk.

Val sighed. "Actually, considering that we're going to have to stand through his critique of how each of us did on the exercise, the penalty for missing boots doesn't really worry me." He made a face, having been the recipient of a very scathing and public dressing down for a poorly thought out decision he'd made in the last exercise prior to the practicals.

Grethen eyed Halmir for a moment but short of instantaneously transporting himself the only cadet with boots on couldn't have gathered the boots and clothing up, gotten to the infirmary and back without getting a single speck of mud on his clothing. Besides, Halmir was wearing the extra pair of boots that he refused to take into the field because he claimed they leaked when it was wet.

Halmir knelt down on the floor next to Daeron's bunk and opened a jar of the sharp smelling salve. "So, who do you want to apply this?"

"I don't care. Just remember that anyone who tickles me will be dead meat before morning!" He winced as he moved his leg. "So what did you all do while I was 'dead'? I was stuck at resurrection point for nearly three hours and that was _after_ I got Ruinanor to the farrier."

Gharal shrugged, "I got killed, too, but never made it to resurrection point before they ended the exercise. I was almost to the enemy picket when I crawled over some chickweed and started sneezing." He was severely allergic to the plant.

Halmir scooped up a dollop of the salve and began to work it into the bruises that decorated Daeron's calf. "Did you see Captain Hallas there?" He smirked.

Daeron turned his head and looked measuringly at his bunkmate. "He came in about a half hour after I did, looking madder than a wet cat."

Grethen tugged on his favorite old tunic over his breeches and dropped to sit on the floor, looking accusingly at Halmir. "You're just dying to tell, so spill."

Halmir grinned wider and kept rubbing in the arnica salve. "I'm the one who tossed him in the rain barrel—so to speak."

"_You_ 'killed' the 'enemy' commander?" Daeron's surprised exclamation caught the attention of the other cadets and within moments their classmates surrounded the two bunks.

"Well, you know the mud that was all over my field uniform? It disguises blue armbands really well."

"Oh, and it just 'accidentally' got all over it when you tripped or something, right?"

"Something like that. I just happened to walk past the back of the Commander's tent, and when no one was looking I pulled a peg, rolled under the canvas and waited in the shadows until he sat down on his cot to change his boots." He handed the pot of salve to Grethen and grinned. "I was able to add some new words to my vocabulary when I put my knife to his throat."

Grethen snickered, "You'll have to teach them to us sometime. I'd loved to have been a fly on the wall when he realized you were there."

"Yeah," Gharal said," His face must have been a picture!"

"I tried to get them to let me keep the Captain's red armband as a souvenir, but they wouldn't let me. And," he added, "I'm looking forward to seeing Sergeant Malthir tomorrow. He made a very substantial bet that I not only would be 'killed' but would take a squad with me by screwing up. I'll give the Captain this. He didn't yell for anyone to come take me out, since I'd—" he mimicked cutting a throat with one hand."

"Did you go after his adjutant as well?" Daeron asked, "Because Lieutenant Aldren showed up at the point right before the Commandant ended the exercise."

"Nope, that was me," Gharal said proudly. "Right before I hit that chickweed, I got him and the picket he was talking to."

The listening cadets cheered, and congratulated Gharal.

Daeron was depressed. He'd not managed to 'kill' any of the 'enemy' in the exercise, and then he'd failed his mission by getting 'killed' himself and Ruinanor was hurt.

Val reached out and shook Gharal's hand. "Good for you. Lieutenant Fallan got me as soon as I got knocked off my horse."

"You really need to learn to duck tree branches, Val," Halmir said. "At least you got taken to the medics instead of the resurrection point. You got to rest through the rest of it, unlike Daeron, here." He turned his attention back to working the salve into the bruises on the side of Daeron's hip, careful to keep the towel in place to preserve his best friend's modesty.

Beyond their immediate circle, the other cadets were talking about their individual successes and failures.

Grethen reached a hand over and tapped Daeron's shoulder. "It was just bad luck, Daeron. You didn't do anything wrong."

Daeron ignored Grethen until his assistant squad leader gave him a sharp poke. "All right, it was just bad luck, but--"

Grethen cut him off. "You did everything right. In case you hadn't noticed, not one of the POWs were retaken and the mission was completed successfully."

"What _was_ your mission, anyway?" Halmir asked.

"We were to rescue six POWs before the enemy got sensitive information out of them. We got them out but got ambushed on the way back to our camp. I figured that if they got me they got the POWs as well as the rest of my squad."

Grethen shook his head. "No, Daer. The cadets who had the POWs with them on their horses set off like bats from Udun's pits and got them away and to the Blue camp while the rest of us kept the enemy busy. In fact, the horse that smashed into Ruinanor wasn't one of ours; it belonged to one of the officers of the group that ambushed us."

He gave Daeron's shoulder a squeeze and continued speaking. "We managed to get the fight moving away from the direction of our camp but by then we knew you were lost."

"There, finished." Halmir capped the jar of salve and finding Daeron's loose breeches and shirt, handed them to him. "Need a hand with those?"

"Thanks, Hal, but no. That salve is working already." Daeron slipped into his clothes and lay back down.

One of the listeners shook his head. "I don't understand why they 'killed' you. As a squad leader, I'd have thought they'd take you prisoner instead."

Daeron clamped his teeth on the words that wanted to burst forth from his throat and counted to ten in Quenya before answering. "I was so covered in mud they probably didn't notice my insignia." He did _not_ want to think about—much less talk about—his experiences as an exercise POW nearly two years previously.

"Ah." The blue-eyed youth suddenly grinned. "Nice to know the enemy can be stupid and unobservant even when they do get lucky."

Probably, the 'enemy' had been specifically instructed not to capture him, Daeron thought somewhat bitterly, closing his eyes. The powers-that-be wouldn't want him to end up back in the Houses of Healing or have him waking the entire cadet barracks with his nightmares for the remainder of his time at the academy.

"Yep, stupidity and lack of observation skills afflict all armies, not just ours," Grethen said, his eyes still on Daeron.

Halmir gently patted Daeron's good knee before climbing up sit cross-legged on the end of the lower bunk's mattress. "So who else has got some good tales to tell—or at least some funny ones?"

Daeron kept his eyes closed but said, "_I_ want to know exactly how Val managed to become such intimate friends with a tree."

Val groaned at Daeron's comment. "Don't ask."

"Why not?" Daeron opened his eyes and raised his head enough that he could see Val's blushing face. "It certainly can't be any more embarrassing than when you and Grethen left me to be captured that time because you had to 'inspect the trees' in the middle of the night."

Halmir snickered. "Don't ask me, I was otherwise occupied at the time."

"Come on, Val," Gharal urged. "Halmir's told his story. I told you what happened to me on the way back from Cair Andros. And all of us witnessed Grethen's fall from grace the second day out."

Grethen gave a long-suffering sigh and said, "I've told you before, my horse's name is Asterth, not Grace!"

Val ignored the old joke and sighed. "It was when I was being a decoy, pretending I had one of the POWs. I headed off in a different direction from Grethen and the rest, and some of the pursuers followed me."

"That was a good idea. I wish I had thought of it," Daeron said.

"Not if you'd done what I did... I had to go through a wooded area, at full speed on a horse pretty much in the dark. I looked back to see where the enemy troops following me were, and just as I turned my head back forward, _wham_!"

All the cadets within earshot winced, and a few rubbed at their foreheads in sympathy.

"Did your horse keep going or did she come back for you?" Daeron asked.

"Eirel didn't go far... and before I could try to push myself up off the ground, she was back, and had her big nose in my face. And then the bad guys caught up to me." He grinned wryly. "Looked like there were three times as many as there really were before I blacked out."

Grethen laughed. Eirel had always considered that it was her fault if her rider came off her back, and would spend the next hour being apologetic and embarrassed. "How many of them did it take to get Eirel away from you long enough to do first aid on you?"

"I have no idea. But the healer who was there when I woke up asked what kind of betrothal present I'd given her."

Halmir snickered. "Did she try to follow you into the healer's tent?"

Daeron laughed out loud and winced as his abused muscles complained more intensely. But he couldn't help it. Eirel was a superb warhorse but this one idiosyncrasy had become a legend in the barracks and stables ever since Val had arrived at the academy.

Gharal stifled his own laughter long enough to sputter, "You have to ask? Of course, she did!"

"It's bloody embarrassing," Val muttered.

"It could be worse," Grethen said mildly, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back against the side of the bunk. "She could have kept going until she got back to Minas Tirith and her nice comfy stable, like Sergeant Restim's horse did."

"So that's why he was riding double with Corporal Inglor," Halmir commented. "It explains his sour expression."

"How could you tell it was from that? He's always grouchy," chimed in one of the other seniors. "I don't think I've ever seen him crack a smile."

A burst of laughter from one of the other groups of cadets interrupted them and moments later the Master at Arms who was on duty came in and stood in the doorway with a jaundiced look on his face. "There's far too much hilarity going on in here. Lights out and be quiet. You've all got a debriefing in the morning." His expression changed to a grin of evil glee as he caught certain eyes as his gaze traveled round the barracks. "And a full dress inspection right after reveille."

The chorus of groans just made him grin wider. "_Good night_, gentlemen."

As soon as the Master at Arms left, the majority of the cadets looked at each other in dismay. "A full dress inspection right after reveille? And our boots are Valar knows where. We are going to be _so_ dead," Gharal groaned before shoving himself to his feet from his perch on Daeron's trunk.

"Maybe the sight of all of use in our stocking feet will be so funny the Commandant will die laughing along with the entire training staff," Daeron offered.

Val shook his head and then winced. "Whose got the watch tonight? The second years? We need to tell them to make sure we're up well before reveille so we can at least make sure the rest of our uniforms are perfect."

Halmir stood up and said, "I can sneak out and ask them to do that. Be right back."

Grethen got up and blew out the two nearest lamps. "Thanks, Halmir."

Gharal looked after the aspiring Ranger and shook his head with a smile of admiration. "There's not a tree in sight and he still manages to disappear in a heartbeat. Did he get a spell from that wizard who stays in the sixth-level guest house or something?"

Grethen turned to look at Val, "You still don't look too steady. Are you sure you don't want to use the lower bunk tonight?" he asked hopefully.

The injured cadet glanced up and then sighed. "All right, but I want my own pillow."

Grethen blinked in surprise. Usually Val was rather proprietary about the top bunk. "All right," he responded as he switched the pillows then climbed up to sit on the top bunk, his head barely a half a foot below the plastered ceiling. "Now I can get up in the morning without a concussion of my own for once."

Gharal paused by Daeron, "If you need anything just reach over and wake me, all right?"

Daeron scowled at his friend and then grinned tiredly. "I'm just bruised, Gharal, not broken to bits. But thanks, anyway."

"Hey, you'd do the same for me. In fact, you have." Gharal blew out the lamp by his bunk that was on the opposite side of Daeron's from Grethen and Val, and slid under the blanket with a sigh. "Good night."

One by one, the lamps in the barracks were extinguished as the grumbling cadets settled in their bunks. Just before Grethen reached to pinch out the one near the head of his and Val's bunk, Halmir came slipping through the shadows and in between the bed frames. "Done and dusted. Bethrond has the watch right before reveille, and he promised to make sure we were up an hour early."

Halmir picked up the second flask he'd brought from the medics and opened it and handed it to Daeron. "Drink this down before you go to sleep."

Daeron sat halfway up and took the flask. "Is this one of your cousin's brews?"

"Yes. He said to drink all of it and you'll be able to actually move in the morning."

"Good." Daeron drained the flask and handed it back to Halmir. "Thanks."

Halmir set the flask on his footlocker before swarming up the bed frame into the top bunk, where he took off his boots and nodded to Grethen to blow out the last light. Still hearing quiet grousing about the inspection coming from further down the barracks, Halmir grinned in the dark then rolled over to enjoy sleeping on a real mattress for the first time in over two weeks.

Bethrond was as good as his word, quietly awakening the senior cadets an hour prior to reveille and slipping out of the barracks back to his post.

Daeron blearily opened his eyes as Grethen used his firestriker to light a lamp. "It can't be morning yet," he mumbled as he threw his blanket aside and rolled from the bunk, not straightening until he was sure he was out from under the frame of the upper bunk.

He blinked as he limped towards his trunk. His boots were sitting atop it, gleaming in the lamplight. He looked to each side and it appeared that every pair of the missing (and previously filthy) boots had been returned in pristine condition.

"What the—" Gharal was equally bemused but wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Halmir rolled from the top bunk to land in a catlike crouch, a wide grin on his face.

Daeron looked from the boots to his bunkmate. "All right, you had something to do with this." He looked knowingly at his best friend. "I recognize that expression, so give. And wipe those canary feathers off your whiskers."

"I had nothing to do with it, but I will admit to seeing the juniors carrying them out of the barracks when I went to the infirmary to get the salves last night. I overheard them talking about how they needed to work fast so they'd be ready for us in the morning. They're the ones who hauled away our field uniforms for cleaning, too." He collected his shaving kit and headed for the bathing room, whistling cheerfully.

Val followed him and said, "If you really want to be a Ranger after graduation, you're going to have to stop that racket, or you'll attract every orc on this side of the mountains."

Halmir modulated his whistle to the call of a jackdaw, and then a magpie.

Daeron joined them a few minutes later and tossed them the extra towels he carried. "You might need these. And do you _have_ to do that this early in the morning?" he asked in an irritated voice.

"No, but I like to," Halmir countered then turned his attention to the polished steel mirror that was fastened to the wall over the row of basins, shaving away the night's growth of whiskers.

Daeron scowled and proceeded to effect his own morning routine.

Halmir finished before Daeron and returned to their shared bunk. Once there he pulled the components of the dress uniform from Daeron's trunk before laying out his own.

"Daeron?" Halmir asked as his bunkmate emerged from the bathing room rubbing his hair dry with an extra towel. "Do you want me to put more salve on your leg? We'll probably be standing for ages."

Daeron paused in drying his hair and sighed. "That would be a good idea, I think. At least it doesn't stink like the stuff that healer we had last year made."

He draped the damp towel around his neck and started towards his trunk, then saw that his kit had already been laid out on the bunk. Halmir was looking far too innocent when he turned to look at his friend. "Thanks, you didn't have to... just, thanks."

Uncapping the pot of salve, Halmir shrugged. "We take care of each other, Daer. One of these days you'll return the favor... and then I'll return it again, but I'm not keeping count. Let's get this on those bruises. It's a good thing you aren't having to run anywhere today."

"That the Valar for small favours." Daeron let Halmir apply the salve and then dressed. The addition of an intricately woven black braid along the silver piped collar and hems of the tunic and a larger shoulder badge of the device of the Citadel Guard differentiated the senior cadet dress uniform from the dress uniforms of the lower year classes.

His bunkmate dressed then helped Daeron draw on the high polished boots before he fastened on the sword belt that his father had gifted him with the year before to carry the scabbard that Halmir had used since the first year at the Military Academy.

"My blade might not have the prestige of yours, Daeron," he suddenly commented, "but I'm glad it served me so well during the exercise."

"It certainly served you better than mine served me there at the end. Thank goodness it's a dress inspection and not an armour inspection. I want at least a week before I even have to look at my hauberk and cuirass." Daeron finished adjusting his left breeches leg so the seam was straight and straightened up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Or maybe I should turn that around and say I failed it."

Val was sitting on the edge of his trunk while Gharal was winding a new bandage about his forehead, covering the stitches and said. "Don't say that, Daeron."

"Why not? I can just hear the debriefing now about the whole incident. A blade that was carried by a Steward deserves better than that."

Grethen arrived a moment later carrying an armful of dress cloaks. Halmir took his cloak from Grethen and turned towards Daeron. "And who's to say that he didn't have something similar happen to him? It just didn't make the history texts."

"That's right, Daeron. History texts never have the fun stuff in them," Val grinned. "I wonder if that's what's in those restricted sections of the Archives. All the embarrassing stuff that ever happened to the Stewards of Gondor would be a hoot to read."

Suddenly, reveille's call rang out over the Academy and the conversation was dropped as the seniors quickly finished their preparations and exited the barracks to fall into morning formation.

The smell of bacon and eggs was wafting from the serving hatch of the officer's mess as the door opened to admit Boromir, the Captain-General of Gondor's Army, his brother Faramir, who was lately returned from Henneth Annun, and the Commandant of the Military Academy. There were already about a half dozen junior officers waiting in line in spite of the earliness of the hour.

Faramir was garbed in his Ranger leathers, instead of the court robe he'd have had to wear if they were eating in the Merethrond with the latest diplomatic guests of the Steward, while Boromir and Commandant wore dress uniforms.

"Mmmmm. I wonder if I could take the leftovers back to the Refuge?" the Ranger asked after he sniffed the redolent air.

"Burn those tomatoes again, Folcan, and you'll be back out running field kitchens," the lieutenant who stood at the hatch warned the cook.

Folcan set a loaded plate on the counter of the hatch and scowled at the lieutenant. "They were not burned, they were grilled. Here, I kept some aside so you can have them raw." The stocky man turned his scowl on the other five lieutenants and growled, "Any other complaints?"

As the first lieutenant gaped at the plate that contained two slices of raw tomato, two raw eggs and two pieces of uncooked bacon, Folcan turned to getting the next plate out.

Faramir bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. He glanced at his brother, his eyes dancing.

"I see that Folcan has things under control, as usual," Boromir said with good humour.

Suddenly the gaggle of Lieutenants noticed the presence of their superiors and fell silent, coming to attention.

The one who'd received the plate of raw food gulped and stepped away from the hatch. "I beg your pardon, sirs..."

Faramir gave ground to Boromir, interested in seeing his brother's response.

Boromir gave the group a stern look for a bare moment then grinned, waving them back into line. "Go on Lieutenants; things aren't so dire that the Command staff is considering putting junior officers on the menu."

The Academy Commandant raised an eyebrow and played along, "However, I understand that finding new sources for rations is on the agenda for the next meeting we have with the Council."

"If the council thinks putting Ithilien Rangers on the menu will help, it won't. Less meat on them than a brace of conies," Faramir added.

"And too stringy. Just look at my brother," Boromir said, slapping Faramir on the back.

"Now, quartermasters and supply officers would probably be nice and tender since they don't seem to do anything to strain their muscles," Faramir observed with a straight face.

The lieutenants looked like they weren't sure whether these comments were just a demonstration "senior officer humor" or not.

Folcan cleared his throat as he shoved more plates out the hatch. "Breakfast is served. But it won't be hot if you don't grab it now."

Boromir took pity on them, remembering his first few months as a junior officer. "Go ahead and get your breakfast, lads."

The lieutenants quickly took their plates and took refuge at one of the tables on the far side of the room.

Faramir grinned. "Valar, were we _ever_ so young?"

The Commandant, a man six years older than Boromir, grinned, "No, you were even younger."

Boromir, in the meantime, had stuck his head in the hatch and was wheedling Folcan to put some cheese in with the fry-up.

The Ranger snorted and then took the plate the cook offered him. "Thank you, Folcan. It looks and smells wonderful."

The cook handed a plate to the Commandant, then finally handed Boromir a plate similarly loaded with the addition of a baited mousetrap sitting on top of the pile of scrambled eggs.

Faramir laughed aloud as he clambered over the bench at the nearest table, nearly dropping his own plate in the process.

Boromir didn't blink but thanked Folcan cheerfully, and joined his brother and the Commandant at the table. Only after the Standing Grace did he expertly remove the piece of yellow cheese from the trap without springing it, and toss the trap at the hatch where it bounced and snapped shut. He then crumbled the cheese over his eggs and began to eat.

The Commandant shook his head and picked up his eating irons. "And I thought you were crazy out in the field."

Boromir shrugged and swallowed his current mouthful before replying. "I beg to differ. I was _not_ crazy in the field, I was _innovative_."

"He's crazy all of the time, but manages to hide it for the most part." Faramir was working his way steadily through the piled plate, which held twice as much food as was on Boromir's.

Folcan appeared at the table then carrying three pewter tankards of ale .

"I heard that some of your senior cadets got rather innovative this last few weeks," Faramir turned towards the Commandant. "How did the exercise go?"

"Is that what that word means?" the grizzled cook asked with a snort. "There's plenty in the kitchen if anyone wants seconds."

The Ranger immediately nodded and handed back his already empty plate. "Seconds would be wonderful. I have a lot of missed meals to make up." Folcan nodded and taking the plate, headed back to the kitchen as Faramir turned back to the Commandant for an answer to his question.

"Innovative, definitely. I thought I'd seen just about everything a group of ambitious young men could do but one of the seniors actually infiltrated the enemy camp, 'killed' the commander and got away without being detected."

Both Boromir and Faramir choked on their ale at that bit of information.

Coughing, Boromir turned a surprised look on the Commandant who made a show of wiping off his sleeve.

Faramir put down his mug, cleared his throat, and stared at the Commandant in disbelief. "How on Arda did he do it? _Who_ did it?"

"It's the Valar's honest truth. The officer in question was rather embarrassed and rather put out about it."

"As to how, you'll have to ask the cadet. It was Cadet Halmir Formail." The Commandant added, "He 'killed' him in his own tent. Dendren was taking off his boots at the time."

"He 'killed' _Dendren_?" Boromir looked impressed.

"Yes. And had the gall to ask if he could keep the red armband as a souvenir too." The Commandant chuckled.

Boromir laughed, "You should have let him keep it; it sounds as though he deserved it."

"I want to meet this cadet," Faramir decided, taking the refilled plate back from Folcan with a smile of thanks. "If it wasn't a fluke, we could use his skills in Ithilien."

"Only if father doesn't grab him first for the special officer corps."

"Finder's keepers. Father isn't here," Faramir retorted and attacked his second helping with gusto, making Boromir shake his head.

"Haven't you eaten at all in the past month?" Ori asked. "I've seen entire units eat less than you have this morning."

Faramir swallowed. "Ori, it's still technically spring. That means there's no berries to pick to supplement the rationed oats we have to use when we can't track down meat. The orcs have either eaten or chased off anything edible that goes on four legs or wings within three days of the Refuge. Of course I'm hungry. My men are _still_ hungry, because they're there, and not here."

Boromir frowned and then looked towards the gaggle of Lieutenants, and spying at least two with the badge of the quartermaster corps on their uniforms, he rummaged through his memory till he found their names, then called out, "Lieutenant Basslin, Lieutenant Worrell, attend me please."

Startled, the two lieutenants glanced at each other, then stood and presented themselves to their Captain-General.

"What may we do for you, sir?" the taller of the two, Lieutenant Worrell, asked.

"I know that the Council approved three shipments of supplies and foodstuffs for Ithilien over the past month. Apparently, the shipments seem to have been misplaced." Boromir didn't glower but the lieutenants looked uneasy. "Please investigate this matter and get those three shipments out there yesterday. If your superiors have anything to say about it, refer them to me."

"We'll take care of it immediately, sir," Lieutenant Basslin said.

"You can finish your breakfasts first."

The two lieutenants nodded and returned to their places with their fellows as Faramir stifled a grin.

"Your men should have their food within three days, Fara. Two, if the weather stays clear."

The academy Commandant had observed the exchange in silence but now commented, setting his eating irons to the side of his empty plate. "Now _that_ was a demonstration of true command presence."

Once the supply officers were back in their corner, the Ranger smiled at his brother. "I was going to hang up the Quartermaster by his unmentionables, but this was much more effective."

"Speaking of command presence, I believe we were going to show our presence at an inspection this morning?" Boromir said, after finishing off his ale.

"We definitely are," the Commandant responded, glancing at the time candle on the wall bracket by the serving hatch, "In about ten minutes, just long enough for a leisurely stroll over to the training yard, and to make the cadets doubly nervous."

Faramir picked up his tableware to carry to the scullery bin and shook his head. "You get a lot of fun out of this, don't you?"

"A man should enjoy his job," the Commandant said as he followed the steward's younger son and did likewise.

Boromir snickered and gave them both a shove towards the door. "Come on and let's get this over with and put the poor lads out of their misery."

Daeron called his squad of underclassmen to attention and did his own inspection. For once it looked like every one was correctly turned out; not a crooked hem, loose collar or scuffed boot in the group. He dismissed them to their regular class formation and hurried over to where the seniors were to stand.

"_Thank Eru_! Even Rumiel managed to get his brass shined properly for once," he whispered to Halmir and Grethen as he nodded to Gharal who stood in his usual place with the class guidon.

Halmir slipped into his place one row behind and one column to Daeron's right. Even without moving his head, he could see a good portion of Daeron's expression. "The world is going to end," he whispered in response, "When was the last time _that_ happened?"

"Never."

Halmir was about to comment further but noticed the Academy staff officers were gathering on the far side of the 'grinder' and set his face in the non-expression they'd all learned early on, while Gharal shot a look at Grethen, who stood behind him at the leftmost side of the front row of seniors, and hissed, "Step on my heels today, Grethen, and you're going to _eat_ those boots."

"Take longer steps."

The customary exchange was the last sound from the senior ranks as Lt. Bedreth paused in front of them and scanned the formation; his gaze alert for any discrepancies.

"Atten-_SHUN_!"

The sound of 250 pairs of heels snapping against each other echoed on the stone walls surrounding the drill field.

Daeron snapped to, and as usual, within seconds of not being allowed to move, his nose began itching. He'd long since given up on figuring out why that happened and gave it up to the Valar as an offering. Hopefully, the inspecting officers would be relatively efficient and they'd be put at ease soon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Commandant's party approaching and identified the unmistakable figure of Lord Boromir among the usual officers, as well as a tall slender officer in the uniform of the Rangers of Ithilien, who was the Lord Faramir. He'd never met the Steward's younger son save to be formally presented at court. Taking note of the similarities and differences between the two brothers served to take his mind off his itching nose.

His father wasn't present and he remembered that Laedren had gone on leave, taking his mother, Lady Meriel and his baby sister, Finduilas to the Manor at Greyvale, to tend to the administration of the family estate there. They were going to be back in the City within a fortnight in order to see him graduate.

Behind his blank-faced mask, Halmir was fighting similar annoyances and focused on the back of the cadet in front of him, silently counting the stitches holding the silver braid along the edge of the uniform's high collar to distract himself from the tickle along the edge of his ear. Then he noticed the inspection party and he caught his breath as he realized the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers was with the commandant and the Captain-General. Then he focused his eyes on the back of Val's collar and began counting stitches again; this time to calm the hopeful excitement rising inside him.

The Commandant deferred to Lord Boromir and Lord Faramir as the officers arrived in front of the senior guidon and Lt. Bedreth took his place a step to side and behind them, ready to note any comments and demerits.

Gharal lifted his chin a fraction higher as the Captain-General stepped in front of him and eyed him from head to toe and back again, sharp grey eyes flickering across the cadet's uniform, searching out for any discrepancy.

"And this is?" Boromir asked as he finished his inspection.

Lieutenant Bedreth said, "Cadet Gharal Carnilin."

Not a thread or hair was out of place and only a slight whitening of the young man's knuckles on the pole of the guidon betrayed the cadet's nervousness.

"And is your brother returned from Pelargir, Cadet Carnilin?"

"Not yet, sir. But he wrote me that he will be at Graduation." Gharal's voice was steady, despite his surprise at the content of the question.

Boromir smiled and nodded to him then the inspecting party moved to inspect the first row and Faramir hid a smile as he overheard the guidon bearer release a light sigh of relief.

Lieutenant Bedreth didn't wait to be asked who the next cadet was but quietly said, "Cadet Grethen Norsas."

Boromir was tall but Grethen towered over him by a good half foot. After inspecting his uniform Boromir addressed him directly.

"That huge grey gelding I saw in the stables must belong to you. Where did you find such a beast?"

"Asterth was a gift from my uncle, sir. He was bred in Dale."

"Ride him in health, cadet."

"Thank you, sir."

Boromir continued down the line asking each cadet a question that made it obvious that he was observant of the smallest details of the lives of his men. The Captain-General took the responsibilities of his position very seriously and intended that he never fall into the trap of seeing the men in Gondor's army as mere ciphers or markers to be moved from place to place on a map, but as people with lives, loves, hopes and dreams.

Boromir stopped in front of Val and noted that the cadet was pale and sweat had beaded on his forehead beneath the bandage that covered most of it.

"Cadet Envalion Taslir,"

"I'm surprised to find you here this morning, Cadet, particularly after a head injury. Your uncle, Healer Adoan, would _certainly_ have something to say about it."

Val tried to hide a wince and failed.

"Fall out and report to the infirmary, cadet," the Commandant ordered, gesturing for one of the waiting training sergeants to accompany the youth.

"Yes, sir." Val went red and then pale again as the senior enlisted man took his elbow and escorted him from the formation, not even giving him time to salute the officers.

Halmir blinked as he looked right into the Captain-General's grey eyes after Val cleared the space directly in front of him and then purposefully focused his vision on the wall on the far side of the compound.

Daeron felt a rush of sympathy towards his friend but then Lord Boromir was before him and he suddenly realized that he now stood eye to eye with the Captain-General.

Boromir gave no sign that he recognized Daeron as the lieutenant gave his name but inspected his uniform and appearance with the same careful scrutiny that he'd given the others. Once the visual inspection was complete he looked consideringly at Daeron before asking after his father. "Have you heard from your father, cadet?"

"Yes, sir. He and my family are still in Greyvale and are well."

"If you write him in the next few days, give him my compliments."

"Yes, sir."

Faramir had kept silent throughout the inspection thus far, watching and listening and making his own judgments of the young men who stood before them.

The inspecting party moved on to walk behind the front row of cadets and began the process again with the second row.

When Lieutenant Bedreth identified "Cadet Halmir Formail", Daeron fought the urge to glance back over his shoulder.

For once, Halmir wasn't worried about the state of his uniform, nor even his hair, which had a tendency to look windblown even when there was no wind. The Captain-General's regard didn't make him any more nervous than he would be if only Lt. Bedreth was inspecting them. It was the presence of the third officer in the inspection party that was making his mind race. He wanted so much to be part of the elite Ithilien Ranger unit.

"Cadet Formail, I believe that Captain Hallas has something for you," Boromir said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Captain Hallas stepped forward from the rear of the inspection party, a piece of red fabric in his hand. "Congratulations, Cadet. After some discussion it has been decided that you should hold on to this."

Halmir fought to keep a straight face, but couldn't keep the grin from breaking through as he took the red armband from the officer and went back to attention. "Thank you, sir."

Boromir grinned back and deferred to Faramir to make the inspection.

Faramir surveyed the flawless uniform, but noted more the archer's muscles in Halmir's build and the way he seemed to contain energy that could be spent in a burst of speed, or by controlled movements that would be missed by the closest observers. The Steward's younger son spoke for the first time as his eyes returned to Halmir's face. "Report to my office when you have completed your individual debrief, cadet." He left it at that and moved back to his original place in the inspecting party, as Halmir replied, "Yes, sir!"

Boromir nodded towards Halmir and then the inspecting party continued down the line. Finally Lieutenant Bedreth ordered the seniors to go to parade rest and they waited while all the remaining cadets were inspected.

When the inspection finally concluded, all the cadets were called to attention. The orders of the day were read out and the seniors dismissed to the largest of the classrooms for the group debriefing while the other cadets were sent off to change to field uniforms and attend morning drill.

Boromir watched as the cadets dispersed, the juniors and plebes to their dormitories to change from their dress uniforms to working uniforms, and the seniors to their debriefing. The Commandant was busy at the moment talking with his adjutant and two of the Inspector General's team.

A hand reached from behind him and tugged on the lock of hair that always managed to fall in front of Boromir's ear instead of laying neatly with the rest. There had been no sound behind him. "Gah!" He jumped and spun round to see his younger brother grinning unrepentantly at him.

Faramir laughed. "Got you again. I told you that you need to pay attention to what's behind you. What if I had been an orc?"

"I do pay attention to what's behind me. And if it had been an orc I would have heard it. Unlike you, who seems to have stolen the feet of an elf, orcs are noisy," Boromir retorted then checked to see if the Commandant had finished his business and turned back to his brother. "So you're going to speak with the hero of the exercise?"

Faramir nodded. "I'd be a fool not to take advantage of talent like that. But if he's adamant about being in the cavalry, I won't lure him to the privations of the Refuge. We need our men to want to be doing what they're doing, not pining for the comforts of the barracks and mess hall."

"I don't think he wants to be in the cavalry, from what I've heard from Laedren's son. He's certainly not in the running for honor graduate given the amount of demerits he's earned. Does that sound like anyone _we_ know?"

Faramir gave Boromir a pretty good attempt at his patented _who me?_ look, then chuckled. "I wish I'd been a fly on the wall when he put the knife to Captain Hallas' throat."

"Me, too," Boromir said with a grin. "But I can imagine what he must have looked like."

"If nothing else, he's created a new Academy legend, and from now on all the seniors will be attempting to meet or beat it."

"Hmmm. I think I'd better remind the Commandant about that possibility." The Captain-General sighed. "The last thing we need is to lose cadets to stupidity because they're trying to outdo a previous class."

The Ranger nodded. "Have you any idea just where you are going to assign that giant and his draft horse?"

"Not yet. I want to talk with whoever's debriefing him and his training sergeants first."

Bells started to chime the hour in the city below the military academy. "I'd better head to my office and wrestle with those supply requisitions, and wait for my prospective recruit to show up." As he finished speaking Faramir made another grab at his brother's hair, grinning.

Boromir seized his brother's wrist before he could catch hold of the errant lock and pulled him off balance, deftly removing Faramir's belt knife from its sheath as he did so.

The move took Faramir by surprise and he found himself with his own knife at his throat. "You made some noise that time, little brother." Boromir then lowered the knife, released his brother, and with a grin offered it back to him.

Faramir shook his head. "I think I'm glad the cadets didn't see that," he said lightly as he took the knife and returned it to its sheath. He grinned back at Ori, then came to attention, saluted the Captain-General and headed towards the arch that led to the street on the Sixth Circle.

Just before ducking through the archway, he paused and called back, "By the way, Father wants you to eat lunch with him today. There's some visitors from Morthond and they've brought their twin daughters with them."

Boromir rolled his eyes and silently groaned.

The academy Commandant turned towards Boromir. "My apologies, my Lord, but it appears that I will have to delay our meeting." He indicated the sheaf of papers still being perused by his adjutant. "This should take no more than an hour but cannot wait."

"Actually, I think we'd better postpone our meeting until tomorrow. I've been requested to take luncheon with my father today and I doubt we would be finished in time for me to make that appointment."

"Is he matchmaking again, my lord?" The Commandant asked quietly. "I could always arrange an 'emergency' for you to have to deal with."

Boromir looked tempted but shook his head. "I think father is catching on to that. No, if you are free tomorrow morning we should be able to get through everything."

"I'll be at your disposal, Captain-General." The Commandant saluted him and, once it was accepted and returned, turned back to his impatient adjutant, taking the sheaf of papers from the other man.

Boromir waited a moment or two and then strode in the direction of the infirmary. He wanted to be available once the individual debriefings began and now would be a good time to visit Cadet Taslir while his classmates were tied up with the general debriefing.

Grethen dropped into a chair and muttered, "I hope this won't take long. I want to go check on Val."

"I told him to go to the infirmary this morning but he insisted on doing the inspection. He wanted to make sure none of his squad got gigged for anything," Daeron told him as he more carefully lowered himself into the next chair. He was aching and stiff in spite of Halmir's cousin's draught but at least he could move.

Halmir was grinning like a fool, staring at the armband he held in his hands and Gharal came in last of all, having had to put the guidon safely away before joining his classmates. He fell into the chair next to Halmir and snickered. "Your face is going to freeze like that, you know."

"Better than freezing in a frown," Halmir retorted.

"I thought that they weren't going to let you keep it."

Daeron laughed. "Well, I don't think that they'd ever get any of the officers to wear it again. They probably think it's jinxed now."

"I guess someone changed their mind." Halmir tucked the piece of red fabric up his sleeve, as they weren't supposed to put anything in the pockets of the dress uniform, and turned to Daeron. "So, when are you writing to your father to pass on the Captain-General's compliments?" he teased.

"Tonight. I was going to be writing him anyway to tell him what happened during practicals."

Before he could continue they heard the sound of the door opening and the call of "Attention!" as the Commandant, Captain Hallas, and the head of the Inspector-General's team, who had run the practicals, entered the room.

Daeron was on his feet in an instant along with every other cadet in the room.

After a brief introduction the order "as you were" was given and they took their seats and the debriefing began.

After the Commandant, Captain Hallas and the Inspector General had left the room Daeron slumped back into his chair groaning. "Why do I get the feeling we all flunked?" he asked as he rubbed at his aching leg. Balath's draught was beginning to wear off.

Grethen leaned back in his chair and stretched, causing the wood to creak alarmingly. "You should know that they're never going to tell us that we did anything right by now."

"You could save the Steward's heirs life and they'd make it sound like you only got it done by sheer dumb luck," Gharal said, then smirked at Daeron, "Wait a minute, you've already done that."

"It _was_ sheer dumb luck."

A training sergeant then began to call off names and directed the specified cadets to go to different rooms for their individual debriefs. All four of the friends were in the first batch, and Halmir suggested they meet afterwards to see how Val was faring.

"Sure," Grethen said, pausing outside the door to the room to which he had been told to report, giving them an exaggerated salute. "We who are about to die salute you. See you later."

Halmir chuckled and moved on to his assigned location. After the morning's inspection, it seemed that even the ego-breaking debrief wouldn't be enough to dampen his high spirits.

hr 

Boromir emerged from the infirmary just as the rest of the seniors left the main briefing room and spotted Daeron limping towards one of the classroom buildings. He suspected that the individual debriefing was not going to go smoothly, given the standing orders that he'd made concerning the cadet for the exercise.

Daeron knocked on the door of his assigned room and entered, coming to attention and saluting. "Cadet Greyvale reporting as ordered, sir."

"Have a seat, Cadet Greyvale. I'm Lieutenant Andor of the Inspector-General corps." The silver-haired officer seated on the far side of the desk straightened a stack of papers before him and indicated the straight-backed chair on Daeron's side of the desk.

Daeron took the seat and swallowed nervously. He hated debriefings; especially since the one following his capture as a POW two years previously during a war game.

"What was your assignment in the final exercise?"

"I was to organize the rescue and repatriation of several POWs, sir."

"And how did you determine what to do to get the POWs back?" Lt. Andor's tone was genial; as if he were personally interested in the answer.

"I sent out three of my most stealthy squad members to do a reconnaissance and find out just where they were being held. Once I had the information about the location and the apparent schedule of the guards, we broke into their camp before dawn and got them out. I lost four of my squad but we got all six POWs out."

Lieutenant Andor nodded, glancing down at the top sheet of paper on the pile before him. "And that left how many to complete the mission?"

Daeron continued, "Eleven, sir. Six of my best remaining riders carried the POWs back to our camp while I and the other five split up to cause confusion and keep them from being recaptured. We met up with Cadet Envalion's squad and they joined us to try to decoy the enemy pursuers."

Daeron paused and swallowed hard before continuing, "I was unhorsed and was killed shortly thereafter. I don't know if all the POWs made it back to our camp or not."

"I see." The Lieutenant made a note on the topmost paper and leaned back in his chair, tapping finger on the smooth wood of its arm. "Tell me, in detail, what happened when you met up with Cadet Taslir. Was it your idea or his to join forces?"

"It was a mutual decision, sir. He still had a full squad. I couldn't have managed to prevent all the enemy from pursuing the POWs with only five men and myself. There were too many of the enemy."

The Lieutenant looked as if he were making friendly dinner conversation; but his questions began to have more bite. "As a squad leader, wasn't it your responsibility to see that your men successfully completed the mission? Why then did you take off on your own? Why not take one of the POWs yourself and let one of the junior people play decoy?"

"I'm not as good a rider, sir, and my mare isn't as fast as the mounts of the riders I picked for the job, or as strong."

"I see." Andor leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers before his chest. "Tell me what you should have done differently to have avoided the action that caused your 'death' at the hands of the enemy."

"I should have been more aware of what was going on in the skirmish. I didn't know there was a panicked horse until it crashed into Ruinanor and knocked us down." He paused again and reluctantly added, "I was 'killed' when I rolled to keep from being crushed under my mare." Then Daeron stopped speaking and waited for the Lieutenant's response.

"Were you surprised to be 'killed' instead of captured? After all, you were a squad leader, and thus should have had valuable information for the enemy."

Daeron swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He'd been shying away from that question in his own mind ever since the exercise ended. He took deep breath and found that he didn't want to answer the question.

Andor did not speak or move, but just kept staring into Daeron's face, waiting.

Finally, the cadet managed to speak. "Yes, I was surprised." He looked away from the lieutenant towards the banner hanging on the wall behind the desk.

"What would you say if I told you that the Red Team had standing orders that you were _not_ to be taken prisoner if captured, but killed only?"

Daeron turned his gaze back to the Lieutenant in surprise. "What?!" The sudden stern expression in Lieutenant Andor's eyes cause him to modulate his tone. "I mean, what, sir?"

"The Red Team, in fact, did have orders that you were _never_ to be taken prisoner. It was felt unwise to put you through that after your—last experience."

Daeron remained silent, his emotions mixed. He was grateful to not have to face capture but a part of him still wanted to find out if he could handle it; and he found himself getting angry. "That wasn't fair. To me or the others."

"Why wasn't it fair?"

"I... I should have to face the same risks they do. When I'm on a mission for real, the enemy isn't going to treat me any differently than they'd treat the others."

"And?" Andor let the word hang, waiting Daeron out.

Daeron clenched his fists until his fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands and closed his eyes. He tried to squelch the anger that continued to build inside him and remain calm but finally he couldn't bear the silence in the room any longer.

"How do you know if I can handle being captured again? How do you know that I won't just start babbling everything I know so I don't have to go through that hell again?!" He continued on, ranting for some minutes until he realized again where he was and to whom he was speaking.

"Oh, Valar..." He forced his eyes to focus on the empty space between the Lieutenant and himself and sat rigidly at attention. "I'm sorry, sir." Then he shut up, gritting his teeth.

Andor didn't say anything but got to his feet in a quick smooth move, his eyes looking past Daeron towards the door.

"I'll finish the debrief, Lieutenant." As the Captain-General's voice sounded behind Daeron's chair, a hand landed on his shoulder, pressing the cadet down when he would have risen to attention.

Daeron found himself trembling with reaction as the anger drained out of him like running water.

"Yes, Captain-General." Andor bowed his head to his superior and left the two alone.

Boromir moved around Daeron's chair, after giving the 17-year old's shoulder a squeeze. He settled, not in the desk chair, but on the edge of the desk closest to Daeron and gave him an understanding smile.

"Can you think of reasons why such an order was given concerning you, Daeron?"

"He didn't want me going berserk and actually killing any of his men?" he answered his voice hard and yet self-deprecating.

Boromir raised an eyebrow and waited.

Daeron slumped in the chair and scrubbed at his face with a hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have spoken like that."

"Understandable. You want to know how you would react, if it should happen again, and now you've lost that opportunity. But did you stop to think that you've already proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you _can_ stand up to being a POW? As well as the consequences that follow on from that?" Boromir's words were something that Daeron had literally not considered before and he took some minutes to consider them.

"It still doesn't seem fair for some reason," he finally said.

Boromir reached out a hand and clasped Daeron's wrist in a warrior's grip, pulling him to his feet. "There is much about Army life that isn't fair but we take what comes and do our best. Do you feel that you did your best with the situations that you faced in the practicals? Regardless of the final outcome?"

"Yes, sir. I think I did," Daeron answered as he faced the Captain-General, his face solemn.

"Good. _That_ is what we ask, Daeron. Not that our officers be perfect, for perfection is a trait of Eru and not mere mortals. But that they do their best for Gondor." He smiled and added, "Your squad was successful in getting all the POWs back to your camp, with only one additional casualty. It was the only POW rescue that came off."

"We still ended up trading seven lives for six lives," Daeron said. "I hope the ones that were saved were important ones." He then reconsidered his words. "Actually, that's not what I really meant. I hope we got them out before the enemy got any useful information."

"That information will be in the final exercise report and you'll find out when the rest of your year does. But be assured that you did well, Daeron. In fact, between your squad and Cadet Formail's insanely courageous—or perhaps I might say insanely stupid—expedition, your year has broken Academy records for accomplishments in the practicals. I look forward to having you join our forces when you return from leave after graduation." He clapped Daeron on the shoulder and straightened. "You are dismissed Cadet Greyvale."

"Thank you, sir. I apologize for losing my temper. I'd better see if I can find Lieutenant Andor and apologize to him properly."

"An excellent idea. It's always smart to keep on the good side of the I.G. team." Boromir smiled at the young man again then waved him from the room, knowing the Lieutenant was just beyond the closed door.

TBC


	9. Rites of Passage Part 2

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Through Daeron's Eyes - Rites of Passage, Part II

By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle

Daeron left the stable reluctantly. Ruinanor was not happy to be confined to the farrier's stall and had made her displeasure apparent until he spent some goodly amount of time grooming her and petting her. The leg was bandaged and she didn't seem to be in much pain but the farrier had looked worried still when Daeron had asked about the condition of the tendon. Finally the farrier and the Academy's stable master had chased him off.

Halmir was grinning as he, Gharal and Grethen caught up to Daeron just before the latter reached the door to the infirmary. Grethen looked fairly disgusted and Halmir was practically walking on air. The blond cadet turned his grin on Daeron. "I guess your debrief was shorter than mine was."

Daeron frowned then shrugged. "Well, I can't call what happened a debriefing. It was..." he trailed off, not wanting to think or talk about the issue of the orders concerning him. 

Gharal spoke up. "It wasn't a debriefing, it was a ravaging. Everything I thought I did right was wrong, and every thing I did wrong was wrong."

A training sergeant walking past caught that and laughed. "Lad, that's just the way it is... get used to it. And behave yerselves whilst you're in town on your afternoon passes."

Daeron stopped. "Passes? I thought we had drill practice this afternoon."

Grethen exchanged glances with Daeron and they both looked at the sergeant in inquiry.

The grizzled man shook his head. "You seniors are free from the noon bell until reveille tomorrow morning." He gave them a warning look, "That doesn't mean staggering into formation after being up all night, mind you."

"Yes, sergeant," they replied in chorus.

The sergeant waved them on their way and continued across the compound.

"Come on," Halmir said, "I want to see Val and then get up to my meeting with Captain Lord Faramir."

The others agreed with Halmir's plan and they turned the corner to the infirmary's entrance. Grethen opened the door and held it open for the others, an expression of disgust still on his face in spite of the good news about the pass.

Daeron thanked Grethen and entered the infirmary before turning to look at Halmir. "You were supposed to disrupt the picket lines, so why were you near the commander's tent?"

"It didn't take that long to deal with the horses, and so I decided to take advantage of being that close to the enemy headquarters."

"What did you do to the horses?" Gharal asked.

"I had a pocket full of carrot and apple pieces and a pouch full of chestnut burrs."

Halmir grinned wider, his eyes full of devilment. "They all know me from when I work the stables here, so they didn't fuss when I came into the picket lines. Fed each of 'em a bit of a treat and tucked a burr under the saddle pad."

Grethen shook his head. "Only you would think to bring horse treats out on an exercise."

"Bet you that next year the red team takes their mounts from the active duty stables and not the Academy stables," Gharal said. He shook his head and added, "It's a good thing you're on our side, Halmir."

"I don't bet on sure things, it's no fun," Daeron responded, "There's going to be a lot of changes. You can count on it. They're not going to want a repeat of this year." He stumbled as his boot caught on a crack in the stone flooring and winced as his bruised hip banged into the wall. He bit back a curse and groaned when a surgeon emerged from one of the open doorways.

Halmir immediately took Daeron's arm to support him. "Let's get you sorted out before seeing Val."

"I'm fine, Halmir!"

"Balath's salves don't last forever, Daeron. Get your leg properly looked at."

Since Halmir was a lot stronger than he looked, Daeron didn't even try to pull away from his friend. Irritated, he allowed Halmir to guide him to one of the chairs that lined the wall of the entryway. He had spent far too much time in the hands of the healers over the past few years, in his opinion, and really didn't want miss out on the afternoon's pass.

"Indulge me. How can we enjoy an afternoon of freedom if you're hurting too much to keep up with us?" he asked practically.

"If the healers have anything to say about it I'll probably be stuck here in the bed next to Val instead of going out on pass," Daeron grumbled as the surgeon approached the group.

Grethen said, "Look, we'll find Val, and you can meet us when you're done. We've got a couple of hours to kill until the noon bell anyway."

Gharal nodded. "And then we can figure out what we're doing this afternoon." He looked a bit happier at that thought.

"All right," Daeron sighed. His best friends obviously weren't going to let him alone about this so he might as well give in. He should have gone to see the healer at Cair Andros but he'd been too worried about Ruinanor to bother. He glowered up at Halmir. "I thought you had an appointment."

Grethen and Gharal exchanged amused glances and headed down a side corridor towards the rooms where cadets who were too injured to return to their barracks were housed.

"And I'll be off to it as soon as I see you in the Healer's hands." Halmir glared back at him.

"Then you can be on your way, cadet." The surgeon was right behind Halmir, and nudged him out of the way as he made a quick visual evaluation of Daeron.

"Yes, sir. I'll come back here, Daeron, as soon as Captain Lord Faramir lets me go."

"At least comb your hair before going up to the Citadel. You look like a crow-scare." Daeron managed to pull up a smile for is friend. "I hope it goes well."

Halmir sobered. "Me too." He headed out the door, finger-combing his hair as he went.

The surgeon noted the shadows under Daeron's eyes and the tension in his brow and jaw. "You're in pain. Come on back and let me see what I can do for you. Didn't you bother visiting the aid station at Cair Andros before you came back?" he said, having noted the senior insignia on Daeron's uniform. He gave the cadet an assisting hand out of the chair.

"No, sir," Daeron answered, gritting his teeth as his leg complained again. "My horse was injured and..."

"And you did everything to get it fixed up and ignored yourself. Here, lean on me and don't put too much weight on that leg." He led Daeron into a treatment room and called for an assistant to remove his boots and breeches.

Daeron closed his eyes and sighed, only to open them as the surgeon spoke again. "Balath, assist the cadet with his boots and breeches. It appears that he has a leg injury. I'll return in a few minutes."

The man who entered the room didn't look much like Halmir, being much broader in the chest and taller, but his eyes held the same expression of mirth bubbling just under the surface and his hair was just as mussed and flyaway as Daeron's longtime friend's was.

"You're my cousin's friend. I guess my salves didn't do as much good as I hoped." As he spoke, his hands were gently and efficiently removing the footwear and easing the uniform breeches from Daeron's legs, being careful not to jar the damaged limb.

Daeron gritted his teeth and hissed as his right boot was removed in spite of Balath gentleness. His leg was mottled from hip to ankle with dark bruises. "They helped. It's just that I had to stand inspection this morning, and the dress boots..."

"They never do quite fit right anyway, and this..." Balath nodded sympathetically and finished the job by draping a blanket over Daeron.

"Thanks." Daeron grinned at the healer. "I owe you a drink of your favourite ale for that salve."

The healer's assistant shook his head. "You don't owe me anything, it's my job." He stepped back as the surgeon entered the room again, now wearing an apron over his uniform and his hands looked freshly scrubbed.

"All right cadet , let's see what you've done to yourself."

The next half hour wasn't as bad as it might have been Daeron decided as he watched Balath wrap his leg from hip to ankle under the direction of the surgeon. Both had been competent and included him in their conversation as they discussed the damage and possible treatment for what looked more and more like a cracked bone in his lower leg.

"You landed on rocks, didn't you?" The surgeon asked pausing with his hand over a particularly ugly bruise on the outside of his leg a few inches below the knee.

"Yes, sir. The ground was covered with granite scree and small boulders."

The surgeon had nodded towards Balath and once the other healer had moved to Daeron's shoulder, probed the area. A spike of pain shot up Daeron's leg and he bit back a cry. 

"Sorry about that. you've fractured the smaller of the two leg bones right below the knee."

"I'm getting really tired of this kind of thing, " Daeron said as Balath reached up to a nearby shelf and poured out a draft into a horn cup.

Balath grinned sympathetically, "Look at it this way, maybe you are using up all of your 'wounded' situations prior to graduation so you won't get hurt once your really out in the field?"

The surgeon snorted. "It's just soldier's luck. If it hadn't happened now it would happen later somewhere else. Balath, once the cadet's taken that, splint the leg."

"There goes my pass, I suppose," Daeron said after swallowing the dose. It was bitter and obviously not one of Balath's concoctions.

"Not necessarily, if you do as instructed this time instead of ignoring your injury." The bite in the surgeon's last words was unmistakable. 

"Yes, sir." Daeron wondered if he was going to end up on report as he answered.

"I ought to write you up for dereliction, but I don't want to deal with the paperwork."

"You never want to deal with the paperwork," Balath observed as he work on splinting Daeron's leg.

The surgeon snorted again and headed for the door. "Paperwork takes away from patient care. Cadet, I'll send someone to your barracks for some clothes. And one of your field boots. You're going to lay in a bed with that leg elevated until the noon bell and at that point, I'll decide if you get liberty or not." He swept from the treatment room.

Daeron had to admit that his leg hurt less once the splint had been applied but he really didn't want to be stuck here while the rest of the class was out on liberty.

Balath excused himself and left the room briefly after double checking the pulse in Daeron's foot, making sure the splint wasn't too tight. He returned a few minutes later with a corpsman who had a stretcher tucked under his muscular arm. 

"We'll get you settled in the ward for a couple of hours and see how you are then."

Daeron looked askance at the stretcher. "I can use crutches."

"Not if you want even a chance at liberty this afternoon." Balath's voice was firm.

Daeron groaned and glared at the healer. "You are enjoying this way too much."

"Actually, I'm not. If I were, you wouldn't be leaving this building until next week."

Daeron gave in with ill grace. He hated being hauled around like a piece of baggage.

The corpsman and Balath expertly shifted him onto the stretcher with minimal jarring to his splinted leg, and carried him from the room, a blanket draped over the lower half of his body to one of the open wards and then to an empty bed and settled him down with extra pillows propping up the splinted leg. "Bring me a bowl of ice from the cold store," Balath told the Corpsman, and set about making Daeron as comfortable as possible. "The ice will help with the swelling and pain," he explained as he straightened up. 

Before Daeron could respond, the fabric and wood screen between his bed and the next one slid to the side, revealing Val, Grethen and Gharal. The two other cadets were regaling a rather bleary-eyed Val with reports of their debriefings and the news that Halmir had been told off to meet with the Lord Captain Faramir.

"So what were you supposed to do about the outer guards, say 'excuse me,' and just walk past them?" Val was indignant on Gharal's behalf after the shorter cadet had told him that the officer who'd debriefed him told him that he'd wasted time by neutralising the outer boundary guards instead of sneaking past them and getting to the mission target. 

Gharal shrugged and looked at Daeron. "How are you feeling? Is your leg going to be all right?"

The corpsman returned with a large bowl of ice, and Balath quickly made an ice pack from a clean linen towel and wrapped it around the area that was damaged. "Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And if Cadet Greyvale does exactly as instructed, he won't be attending his graduation on a stretcher."

Daeron sighed and nodded, raising his hands up to a position of surrender. "All right, all right."

Balath moved to check on Val, dipping a folded cloth in cool water and laying it across his forehead. "One of you keep this moist if you're going to be here swapping debriefing stories."

Grethen nodded. "Yes, sir."

Gharal looked at the splint on Daeron's leg. "Just what is wrong with it, Daer?"

"It's broken. I didn't know it was possible to walk and stand on a broken leg."

Balath turned back to Daeron. "Oh, it's possible, but not a good idea. Next time you get dumped off your horse you'd better report to the aid station. You were lucky this time, but you can't count on your luck holding out." The healer turned to catch Gharal and Grethen's eyes. "I'll be back in about an hour. Try to keep it to a dull roar. There are other patients in here, you know." He paused before he left the ward and added, "Keep an eye on the time-glass and take that ice off in another fifteen minutes. Twenty on, twenty off, until I return."

Gharal replied in the affirmative and went to drag a chair over to sit between the two beds.

Daeron dropped his head back against his pillow as the healer headed down the ward. "This is not how I had intended on spending the day."

Val mumbled something indistinguishable, holding the cool cloth against his forehead.

"Say again, Val?" Grethen asked.

"I said 'me either'... at least you didn't get told off to come here by the Captain-General."

Grethen snorted. "Would you have preferred to have collapsed and fallen flat on your face in front of him instead?"

The giant cadet snagged the other nearby chair with his foot and dropped onto it, the back in front of his chest and his arms folded over it.

"He didn't yell at me, but I feel like he should have. I was pretty stupid to ignore this," Val sighed.

Daeron half rolled onto his side and leaned on one elbow as he looked at his friend. "But the surgeon at Cair Andros cleared you to ride back in formation."

Gharal said, "I don't think he paid much attention to anything else that came in after Maurgan was brought in."

"Probably not," Grethen replied. "I wonder what's going to happen to him."

Gharal looked unhappy. "They wouldn't even let me see him again before we came back, and said that he wasn't to be moved from where he was laying. When I found him the shape of his head was just... wrong." He shuddered.

Daeron shivered himself at Gharal's words. "The Valar keep and heal him," he whispered.

Grethen drew the conversation away from such a gloomy subject. "We know that Lord Boromir didn't shout at you, Val. I don't think anyone in the junior years even realized he'd ordered you out of ranks."

"Not there... in here. He stopped in and sat down and talked to me." His voice had a trace of wonderment in it. 

Gharal had noticed the shiver and asked Daeron if he wanted another blanket.

"No, but thanks. What did he say, Val?"

"He said he understood my wanting to fulfill my duties, but that I would be failing my men if I ignored an injury and had it go bad on me in the middle of an action. It could cause them to pay more attention to my health than to the enemy and more of them could die than might otherwise do so. I hadn't looked at it that way before," he admitted.

Gharal nodded as he checked the icepack on Daeron's leg. "I can see that."

"And then he told me about how he learned that lesson--but I promised I wouldn't repeat the details." Val smirked, then winced as his head throbbed again.

Daeron shifted his uninjured leg and spoke up. "Lieutenant Andor, who started to debrief me asked me why I didn't take one of the POWs since I was the squad leader. I don't know whether he liked my explanation that I thought it would be better to have my best riders and horses carry them, instead."

Grethen re-wet the cloth and laid it back across Val's forehead. "Oh, come on Val. You know we won't tell anybody else," he said teasingly.

"No. I promised."

Daeron looked thoughtful. "You know, we're awfully lucky to have Lord Boromir as Captain-General." He was remembering the private conversation he'd had with Lord Boromir the day he gave him his own personal puzzle case and had taught him how to open and seal it.

Gharal nodded, adjusting the blanket on Daeron's bed. "We are." He suddenly looked hard at Daeron. "Wait a minute, You said Lieutenant Andor started your debrief. Who finished it?"

Daeron sighed and flushed. "Lord Boromir did."

Grethen raised his eyebrows. "All right, spill. What's got you all embarrassed?"

Daeron bit his lip and hesitated. He really didn't want to tell them.

Just that moment Halmir burst into the ward, grinning like he'd just captured Captain Hallas all over again.

Daeron happily seized on the interruption. "What happened, Halmir?"

Halmir just beamed. "Captain Lord Faramir wants to see me shoot and I need to demonstrate my sneaking techniques for him!" He dropped to sit on the foot of Val's bed, careful not to land on the concussed cadet's feet.

"So when is that going to happen?" Daeron asked.

"After the exams--during the four day break. I can hardly wait!"

Gharal congratulated Halmir but then turned back to Daeron. "Daeron, why did Lord Boromir finish your debriefing?"

"Lord Boromir? Why did he debrief you?" Halmir interjected. "And why didn't you mention it before?"

Daeron flushed again. "I yelled at Lieutenant Andor."

Even Val lifted his head and stared at Daeron with the other three young men. "You what?"

"I yelled at the I.G." Daeron felt mortified. 

"And you're still breathing?" Halmir asked. "He debriefed me after that awful infantry war games two years ago and I lost my temper and I thought for sure my father was going to have one less son before morning."

Grethen asked, "Why did you yell at him, Daeron?" His voice was quiet and sympathetic, and he waited, looking Daeron in the eye.

Daeron finally answered. "He told me that the Red Team had standing orders not to capture me no matter what the circumstances were." He looked away. "I lost my temper and shouted that it wasn't fair to me or to everyone else."

Gharal drew in a breath and let it go in a low whistle. "I've never heard of orders like that for an exercise."

"When we're out there doing this for real the enemy isn't going to treat me any differently from everyone else. So they shouldn't have done it."

"What did Lieutenant Andor do?" Grethen asked.

"That's when he stood up and saluted Lord Boromir."

"I'd have died," Val commented and subsided with a grimace back onto the supporting pillows.

"I wanted to." Daeron looked back at them. "I tried to stand up but Lord Boromir held me down in my seat and dismissed Lieutenant Andor. Then he debriefed me, if you want to call it that."

Gharal asked, "What would you have called it then? And what did he say?"

"He didn't ask me anything about why I made the decisions I made or any of the other things they ask when you're debriefed. He told me that 'they' felt that it would be better that I not end up as a POW again, that I'd already proven I could handle it during the infantry war games."

Grethen nodded. "I can see why you'd be upset, though. You don't know if you'll give in to keep anything like what happened the last time from happening to you again."

Daeron wasn't willing to admit to that. "It's not fair to everyone else that they made a special exception for me."

Halmir suddenly spoke up, "Do you know for certain that it was just for you? What about Gharal and the others who were captured before? Maybe the order covered them too."

Daeron stilled and Gharal's expression changed as he thought over the events of the past two weeks. "You know, it may very well have covered all of us. I know that they could have captured me at least three times and they didn't," Gharal said thoughtfully. "I just got 'killed' and they took the dispatch case from me afterwards."

Halmir nodded. "And considering they would have gotten more points for the capture than the kill, it makes sense."

Daeron looked at Grethen. "I know that two of the others were with you when you got caught in the mountains. Did they 'kill' them or take them to their camp along with you?"

Grethen took a few moments to think about it. "You know, they did 'kill' Niendil and Vothras right in front of us, as a matter of fact, before they blindfolded us and took us off to their camp."

"We might want to check with them to see what they were told," Halmir suggested. He looked at Daeron. "Does that make you feel better, if the orders were for all of you, and not just yourself?"

"Yes," Daeron answered. "A little bit. But how can they know that I won't just give up everything I know to not go through something like that torture again?"

"Daeron, you knew you were going to get flogged when you disobeyed Lord Boromir's orders back in spring--and you still didn't break your oath to Bandarel. I think it's pretty obvious that you aren't going to babble your guts out just to stop being hurt badly." Val said and then yawned on the last word, "Sorry."

Daeron was silent, trying to sort out his feelings about Val's words. Actually, he felt stunned. "I didn't think about that. I hadn't connected the two events in that way. Thanks, Val." Feeling as if a mountain of doubt had slid off his shoulders Daeron reached over and clasped Val's hand. "Remind me that I want to keep you around to tell me the things I ought to know for myself."

Val yawned again, wincing as the movement made his head ache more.

Grethen frowned and moistened the cloth again before rising to his feet. "I'm going to get the healer. Don't fall asleep."

Gharal lifted the ice pack off of Daeron's leg and offered to dump the half melted contents down Val's back it that would help.

Halmir snickered despite his worry for his friend. "I don't think the healers would like you soaking a perfectly good set of pillows and the mattress. Come on Val, your turn to tell us about what happened to you in the mountains. I never saw you the whole time I was skulking about."

"Come on, Val. We've told our stories now it's your turn." Daeron coaxed.

Val grinned a little bit, tried to stifle another yawn, and told him, "Ranian and I decided we needed to neutralize the enemy scouts. So we took turns being bait for them. One of us would pretend to be lost or have something wrong with our armor or something like that, and the other would jump on the enemy when they were occupied with attempting to capture or kill the bait. Since the scouts were working solitary instead of teams, it worked really well. Too well, actually," he added, reconsidering. "The next day they sent the scouts out in pairs."

"How many did you neutralise?" Gharal asked.

Val counted silently on his fingertips, "We got fourteen of 'em before we couldn't find anymore in our area of operations." He rubbed at his eyes, "I'm so tired."

Balath arrived at that point and after ordering Halmir off the bed, examined Val, paying particular attention to his eyes. "You're eyes are reacting equally now so I'll let you sleep."

"Good," Val muttered and succumbed to the exhaustion that he'd been fighting all morning.

Balath straightened and drew the screen, giving Daeron and the others a stern look. "I won't chase you off from Daeron but keep it quiet,"

Halmir grinned unrepentantly, but agreed. "We'll be good. Did you hear my good news?"

Balath rolled his eyes, grinned back at him and tousled the fly away blond hair. "How could I not? You fairly trumpeted it across the City."

The healer checked Daeron's leg and called for a corpsman to bring more ice. "The swelling's gone down some. Are you getting any feeling of pins or needles in your foot?" he asked.

"No. It's feeling better. Will I be able to go on liberty?"

"How is the pain?"

Daeron considered for a moment and shrugged. "It aches but it's not as bad as it was."

Balath stared at the knee for a long moment. "Do one more cycle of ice, and if the swelling has gone down a bit more in an hour, I'll let you go on liberty," he held up his hand to forestall any reaction, "with the proviso that you stay on this level and keep that leg elevated at least eighty percent of the time. So no hopping down to the taverns on the third level."

Daeron sighed and looked at the healer. It was obvious that Balath was not going to budge on the terms. "Agreed. I'll stay on this level and keep off my leg."

"I'll be back in an hour. And I'll send some food in for you and your friends as it's obvious they won't be abandoning you to go to the midday meal."

"Thanks."

Halmir waited until Balath was gone and said, "Well that puts paid to my original idea to have supper at the Dragon's Ear."

"Supper, hah! You just want to ogle Gareth's daughter," Daeron snorted.

Halmir grinned, "That too."

Grethen snickered. "Better watch out, Halmir, he's got a heavy hand when it comes to anyone sniffing around his girl."

"It won't do any good, you know," Gharal said, "She only has eyes for Lieutenant Bredreth."

"And you know this how?" Halmir retorted.

"I've got eyes," Gharal answered. "As soon as he walks into the Dragon's Ear nobody else exists as far as she's concerned. 

Daeron interrupted. "Anyway, Halmir, I don't think it's a good thing to get involved with a girl just when you're about to go off and become a Ranger."

Halmir just shrugged, "In any case, where will we go then? The taverns on this level are still off limits for us."

"I still think we should have dropped Bastor and his squad off the wall. They're the ones that started the fight in the Golden Bell and Bastor was the one stupid enough to throw the lantern that caused the fire." Gharal grumbled. "The Bell had the best ale in the City."

Grethen nodded, "But even if they weren't off limits, that doesn't do Daeron any good. How would he keep his foot up in an inn? At least not without someone running into it. My folk's house won't be any good since its on the fifth level."

"We could go to my house? Although my sisters are all there this week." Halmir offered.

A groan from Daeron put paid to Halmir's suggestion. "No, I'll stay here before I have to face any of your sisters. Remember what happened the last time? Alastiel kept insisting that I should keep company with her best friend what's-her-name. Tell you what. My parents are still in Greyvale with my sister but Bendrel and the staff are still at the House. We can go there. I know that Ullien wouldn't mind cooking a real meal or two for us," he offered.

"Merewon isn't bad looking, Daeron," Halmir teased. "You could do worse!"

"Sure, and I'll be lunatic in three days because she won't shut up. Jabber, jabber, jabber!" Daeron huffed. "No amount of good looks can make up for that."

The others snickered.

Gharal's eyes lit up. "Would Ullien make those wonderful little cakes for us, do you think? The ones with the berry filling in them? I dreamed about them for months after last MettarК, you know."

Daeron shrugged. "She'll probably be so happy to have people to cook for other than the staff that she'll make us anything we want."

"Too bad Val can't come along," Grethen observed. "Maybe we can bring something back for him. He shouldn't have to miss out on something good just because he's banged up."

"Good idea." Halmir peered around the curtain that separated the two beds and went back to perch carefully on the foot of Daeron's bed. "He's really out of it."

The cadets continued talking and a corpsman brought a tray of sandwiches and changed out the ice on Daeron's leg. They were so involved in their conversation that they were surprised by the noon bell. Moments later Balath came in carrying a pair of crutches. He shooed Halmir off Daeron's bed and handed him the crutches to hold before looking at Daeron's knee.

"Looks better. Pain still diminishing?"

"I guess. It feels pretty numb from the ice."

Balath nodded, "All right. It's obviously killed you to do it, but you did what I said, so let's see how you do on the crutches up and down the ward, and then I'll sign you out."

Daeron grinned with relief and sat up. "Thanks!"

Balath eased the splinted leg from the bed and took the crutches from Halmir once he'd gotten Daeron balanced on his good foot.

Daeron grinned and held out his hand for the crutches. "I do know how to use them, Balath."

"Well, how can one be sure with all the headshots you've taken in weapons practice?" the Healer teased, stepping back to give Daeron room to maneuver.

"Ha, ha, ha. Thanks a lot."

It took a few tries before Daeron found the correct angle to hold the crutches to keep his splinted leg off the floor but once he had it, he quickly navigated the length of the ward. "Well, can I go?"

Balath grinned at his impatience. "Aye. But you're to report here in the morning so I can check the splints before formation. And be easy on the ale and wine. You don't need to be toppling over on your way back to the barracks."

"I won't do anything stupid. I promise."

A corpsman appeared in the doorway, his hands full of what turned out to be some of Daeron's off-duty clothing. Shortly there after, he was dressed in a pair of loose trousers and a plain tunic and shirt.

Halmir held out Daeron's left boot. "Here. You're going to want this since you're going outside."

Daeron allowed his friend to put the boot on his good foot. Soon thereafter, the four cadets were heading towards the barracks so Daeron's friends could change from their dress uniforms."

Daeron dropped on to his bunk with a sigh. It was good to be out of the infirmary but he'd forgotten that using crutches on a smooth stone floor was entirely different from using them on cobbles and gravel. "Halmir, will you grab one of my socks out of my footlocker?"

Halmir looked at him, concerned. "You all right? If going outside is going to be too rough to deal with, I'll be glad to stay here with you."

"I'll be OK. I'll just need to take my time. The house isn't that far away."

The light-haired cadet nodded and rummaged in Daeron's trunk until he found a sock that didn't look in incipient need of darning. "Here you go."

Gharal's head emerged from the neck of his tunic, grinning evilly and he shrugged to settled the fabric over his shoulders. "If worse comes to worse, Grethen can carry him."

"Like spit. I'll manage. I'm not going to stay here and be stuck with the excuse for supper they're going to foist off on us when I can have real food just for hopping a few streets." Daeron said with some heat.

Halmir kneeled down and worked the sock onto Daeron's bare foot, being careful not to tickle, remembering that his best friend knew all of his ticklish spots and not wanting to risk retribution.

"Thanks, Hal," Daeron said, wiggling his toes carefully once the sock was in place.

Shortly all were ready and they made their way out into the City.

Daeron laughed to see the expression on Bendrel's face when he opened the door and the four cadets entered the house. The butler tried to retain his professional demeanor but his surprise and pleasure were all too apparent.

Halmir grinned. "We've got an afternoon and evening pass, so we thought we'd come see if you'd take pity on us and let us avoid the horrible food at the mess hall."

"Gladly, Master Halmir. Master Daeron, what have you done to yourself this time?" Bendrel asked as he opened the door to the seldom used parlour on the left side of the entry way. "You can lie down on the couch in here as I doubt stairs would not be a good idea right now," he said, referring to the comfortable sitting room that was attached Daeron's bedroom on the first floor.

Daeron sighed as he was directed towards the couch in question. "I fell off Ruinanor."

Gharal corrected, "You got knocked off Ruinanor. Falling sounds like something you had control over."

Bendrel opened the curtains to let the afternoon sunlight into the room as Daeron answered. "All right, I got knocked off Ruinanor. The end result was the same anyway. And since when have we had control of anything since entering the academy?"

"I'll have Egeron light the fire and let Ullien know there are four very hungry young men here for a late lunch and supper. Is there anything in particular you would like?"

Daeron shrugged, "I'm not picky. Anything she wants to make is fine with me so long as it doesn't contain mushrooms."

Gharal cleared his throat and looked pleadingly at Daeron, making his best 'begging eyes' expression.

Daeron laughed. "But if she could make up some of those fruit cakes that she did last MettarК we'd appreciate it."

Grethen carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs next to the couch, the piece of furniture looking as though it were designed for someone of far less stature than himself. "I wouldn't mind that spicy rice dish she makes."

Halmir watched Grethen for a moment. "Daeron, would your father mind if we moved one of the arm chairs from his study in here for Grethen?"

"I don't think he'd mind. Bendrel?"

"I'll see to it. And do you have any requests Master Halmir?"

"As long as it doesn't have a pulse, I'll eat it." He snagged one of the decorative cushions that rested on one of Lady Meriel's fragile chairs and sprawled on the hearthrug, leaning his elbow on the cushion.

"I'll make certain that the main course is deceased before presentation then. I'll also have someone bring in the other chair as well as some light refreshments to tide you over until the meal is ready."

Halmir snickered as Bendrel smiled fondly at the young men and left the room. Within minutes Grethen found himself ensconced in a chair much more suited to his size and a maid had brought a tray of fruit, bread, cheese and sausages in and placed it on the table near the couch.

Bendrel followed immediately thereafter with another tray, this one containing two sweating pitchers and four cups.

"Light ale and lemonade," the butler said in response to Daeron's inquisitive look. He sat the tray down and frowned at Daeron's boot that was lying on the upholstered couch. "Perhaps you'll be more comfortable without your footgear, Master Daeron?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll take care of it." Halmir pushed himself up onto his knees and tugged the offending boot free and set it on the floor under the edge of the couch.

"Thanks," Daeron muttered. He wished that he'd have dared to try the stairs. The furniture in his sitting room, like that of his father's study, was nowhere as fancy or fragile and much more comfortable to lounge on. And it didn't matter it a dirty boot or two ended up on the arm of a chair.

"No harm done, see?" Halmir brushed his hand over the cushion and demonstrated that there was nothing there.

Gharal crossed to the tray of snacks and started putting sandwiches together. "Who else is hungry besides me?" he inquired.

Halmir immediately raised his hand.

"Why did I even ask?" Gharal said with a sigh, handing over a sandwich.

Grethen snorted. "That's a given! Where the heck do you put it all? You're still too skinny."

"He has hollow legs," Daeron put in.

Bendrel smiled and left the four to their own devices.

Halmir just grinned and then handed the sandwich to Daeron.

"Thanks." Daeron waited till the others had their sandwiches and then bit into the his own. "Ah, now why can't the cooks at the Academy manage something like this?"

"They do it on purpose," Gharal opined. "If they feed us bad there, we won't complain at how lousy the rations are in the field."

"That's possible," Grethen said, as he reached for one of the pitchers and a cup. "But it could also just be plain incompetence."

"Why not both?" Halmir asked. "They hired incompetent people so we get used to lousy food." He was now lounging back on the hearth rug, his head propped up by the bolster pillow, and his legs crossed at the ankles. The chest of his tunic was littered with bread crumbs from his rapidly devoured sandwich.

Daeron set aside his sandwich and shifted his position; trying to get more comfortable and then hissed as his broken leg was jarred. "I'm getting really tired of this," he grumbled sourly.

"Ice!" Gharal suddenly said. "Balath said you were to keep putting ice on it to keep the swelling down." He got to his feet and headed towards the door. "I'll be right back!"

Grethen picked up a slice of cheese and began to fold it into smaller squares before popping it into his mouth. After swallowing, he asked Daeron, "How about a game of chess?"

"That sounds good to me. My set is up in my rooms. If you ring for Bendrel he'll have someone bring it down."

"I'll get it." Halmir bounced to his feet. 

"Have you gotten into Balath's stimulants or something? Your bouncier than a jack-in-the-box," Daeron said.

Halmir grinned and headed for the door, "You'd be bouncy too if you knew what I know about what's going to happen a week after graduation!" He laughed as he ducked through the door and the other two could hear his boot heels rapping against the stone as he ran up the stairs.

"What?! What are you talking about?"

Grethen shrugged as he met Daeron's eyes. "You know he won't tell. He likes knowing secrets but he'll die before he spills anything." He got up and dragged his chair over to the couch and sat back down. "So, do you want to make the game interesting?"

"I'm not betting with you, Greth. The last time I did I ended up giving you all of my monthly allowance."

"Ah, well. It was worth a try. Where did Gharal go for that ice? Caradhras?"

"I heard that." Gharal came in carrying a bowl of ice with a few towels draped over his arm. "There's snow and ice still in the mountains here, no need to muddy my boots in the Entwash."

The butler followed him into the room, carrying a length of brown hide and several pillows.

"We need to lift your leg for a few seconds, Daer," Gharal continued, "and then you can let it freeze for a half hour." He set the large bowl of ice chips on the floor and moved to stand by Daeron's feet.

"Grethen, give me a hand, while Bendrel puts the hide down on the cushions."

Grethen stood up and joined Gharal. "What to you want me to do?"

"Slide your hand under the knee and lift it about six inches when I say so." Gharal cupped his hands beneath Daeron's calf and ankle. "Ready Bendrel?"

Bendrel dropped the pillows and shook out the hide. "Yes, young sir."

"Lift slowly, now." The cadets carefully raised Daeron's splinted leg, and Bendrel rapidly slid the hide beneath it, layering the leather over the top of the undamaged limb for the moment.

"All right, lower it. You all right, Daeron?" Gharal asked.

Daeron hissed and gritted he teeth but nodded.

Gharal made sure he moved the lower leg down in line with Grethen's motions and shook his head as he felt the muscles of the calf spasm. "Sorry about that Daeron." He grabbed one of the pillows and tucked it beneath the edge of the leather, and nodded for Grethen to do the same. When the trough was formed around the broken leg, Gharal made sure that the lower end of the leather made a dip so that the meltwater from the ice would fall into the bowl rather than soak the couch or the floor.

" It's all right. But this is getting really old really fast."

Bendrel filled the towels with ice, making them into a pair of long bolster-shaped rolls, and tucked one on each side of Daeron's leg. 

Halmir came in just then, carrying not only the chess set in its box with the inlaid board, but also a deck of playing cards. "If we're freezing your leg, we'd better get a fire going in here," he observed. "When I broke my leg during that exercise I thought I was going to shiver to death when I got home and mum got hold of me."

Grethen nodded and headed towards the hearth and its attendant wood box. "I take care of it," he said pulling his firestriker from his belt pouch.

Daeron relaxed back against the arm of the couch. "Your mother is enough to make anyone shiver when she gets going. Remember when we were exploring the vacant tanner's yard? I think even Master Adoan was nervous of her."

"Well, I'm the one who ended up with the broken bone that time." Halmir set the chess box on the small end table and shoved it between the couch and Grethen's chair. "And I'm still one up on you in the fractured bones category." Shuffling the cards, he grinned. "Don't try to tie my score, mellon-nin."

"You can stay ahead of me as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to have to go through this again."

Daeron reached over to open the box and began setting out the carved pieces. "Now what is it you were blathering about before you went upstairs?"

"On the assumption that I'm going to survive the next two weeks and actually graduate, I have been invited to take a trip to North Ithilien." Halmir looked both smug and ecstatic at the same time.

Bendrel double checked to make sure the ice trough was secure then went to assist Grethen with the fire.

"What?" Gharal asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Apparently, when he met with Lord Faramir he made a good impression... for once. But he has to demonstrate his competency in archery first." Daeron told the others as he finished setting up the chess board as he spoke. "I'm assuming that he did his 'turn invisible' trick for the Captain already."

"Not yet." Halmir settled back on the floor and began to shuffle the cards in earnest. "I'm keeping that in reserve."

"So what did you do that impressed Lord Faramir so much that he's willing to take you into the field?" Gharal asked. "Besides 'killing' Captain Hallas in the exercise, I mean."

Gharal went back to his chosen seat, pulling a small book out of his belt pouch, before seating himself as he waited for Halmir to answer.

"Actually, I just answered questions. He must have pulled my record."

Daeron gave his best friend a sympathetic look. "If he did he had to have seen all those demerits. I think you have a record number of them."

"He even asked me about that very first field exercise we went on our first year--when Val got himself snarled in the briars and it took all three of us to get him out, and we all nearly got captured? And he didn't say anything about the demerits."

"How can I forget? I still can hear Sergeant Ferris telling us how stupid we were." Grethen snorted. "You were lucky not to be with us that day, Gharal. I think we were convinced we were all going to be sent home in disgrace."

"It wasn't my fault that time," Daeron said. "Val was the one who wanted to 'take a short cut' back to camp. I'm surprised we didn't end up in Far Harad or something we were so lost when we heard the 'enemy' troops."

Halmir propped up two cards into a tent shape on the floor in front of him. "We had clean up duty for three weeks straight after that. And," he added, "Val got stuck with redrawing a map of the place he got us lost in--and he doesn't draw that well."

Grethen took his seat and grinned. "I think Sergeant Ferris finally decided it was acceptable out of pity. Otherwise we'd probably still be polishing brass and cleaning floors."

Gharal snickered, "I can believe that."

Grethen continued, "I think he gave up on Val's artistic talents after he redid the map for the fifth time. So what did Lord Faramir want to know about that exercise?"

A second card tent was set up next to the first and Halmir was carefully balancing another card across the two peaks. "He wanted to know how we avoided being captured when the blue team came through inches from where Val was caught."

Daeron picked up two pawns, one black, one white and enclosed them in his hands. After a moment, he separated his hands, each piece hidden in a fist and held his hands out towards Grethen, who snickered again and tapped Daeron's left hand. The palm opened to disclose the white pawn.

Gharal looked inquisitively hopeful, obviously wanting more of the story.

"I told him we dumped a big pile of dead leaves on Val, so they didn't realize he was there. And Daeron and I squeezed into a hollow log--I think I still have scars on my knees from the bloody splinters."

"Where did Grethen hide?"

"Up in a tree that hadn't lost all its leaves yet." Halmir glanced up with a smirk at his large friend.

Gharal looked at Grethen in disbelief.

"I wasn't anywhere as tall as I am now," Grethen pointed out. He turned the chess board so the white pieces were towards himself and replaced the pawn, saying nothing but looking rather smug, himself. Daeron replaced the black pawn and grinned.

"Yes, you only grew five inches over the next year, and four more the year after that," Daeron commented. "I remember the quartermaster used to cringe every time he saw you."

"He'll cringe when he sees that you're going to need a new pair of dress uniform breeches for graduation because of that splint," Grethen riposted.

"Don't remind me," Daeron answered gloomily. "If I'm still on crutches, I won't be able to be in the formation with you."

Halmir had started on the second level of his house of cards. "Not necessarily. They won't let you do the pass in review, but when we come to receive our commissions you'll be right there with us."

Daeron watched as Grethen moved a pawn, and shivered. The ice was helping knock down the pain in his leg but he was getting cold and the fire didn't seem to be helping much.

"Yeah, hopping along like a demented tree frog."

Gharal shook his head. "Nope, you can't be a tree frog. Grethen is the tree frog." He put down his book and snagged the heavy tapestry throw that was draped across the back of the empty chair next to the one in which he sat, then leaned forward and tucked it around Daeron's shoulders, managing to avoid knocking over anything on the chess board.

Halmir snickered at the mental image of a very large and very green Grethen perched in a tree.

"Thanks, I think. If Grethen's the tree frog, then what am I?"

Gharal returned to his seat and his book before considering his answer. "I would say a badger."

Daeron blinked. "A badger?"

"You're stubborn," volunteered Halmir, now adding a third story to the card house.

Grethen tapped him on the back of the hand. "It's your move. And at the moment you look like one emerging from his den."

"Hmph! Well, if I'm a badger then Halmir's a squirrel."

The hopefully prospective Ranger sat up straight and peered over his shoulder. "Nope, no fluffy tail. Not a squirrel."

Grethen snickered, "Actually, I think you're an otter."

Halmir's eyebrows went up. "An otter? Why?"

Grethen shrugged, "One minute you're here, another minute, you're there. Just like those river otters we watched that evening we were camped out by the Anduin right before we started at the military academy. No one sees you move, but--poof--there you are coming up behind your target, like the otters do in the river."

"So what are you, Gharal?" Daeron asked, pulling the throw tighter around his shoulders as his teeth began to chatter. "T-t-this is s-s-t-t-upid. It's summer and I'm shaking like it's midwinter."

Gharal frowned. "Halmir, add more wood to the fire. Grethen, go ask Bendrel for something hot for Daeron to drink." He knelt down by Daeron's leg and shifted the ice-filled towels and glanced at the sand glass that rested on the mantelpiece. "Sorry, Daer, but you need to keep the ice on it for another ten minutes."

Grethen rose and headed for the door, pausing to remark, "Gharal's a mother hen, of course." He disappeared out the door with a chuckle.

The so-called 'mother hen' rolled his eyes.

Halmir was already adding wood to the fire. By the time the blaze was burning to his satisfaction, Grethen had returned with Bendrel who carried a tray containing a steaming teapot and cup.

Gharal intercepted the tray with thanks and lifted the lid on the pot, smiling with approval at the scent of cardamom, cinnamon and ginger. "Here, Daeron. This should help." He poured a cup and held it to his friend's lips. "No, just drink it. There's no point in you wearing it."

Daeron sighed and swallowed the hot tea as Gharal directed.

Once the cup was empty, Gharal placed it back on the tray and looked at Daeron closely. "I think you have a fever."

Halmir poked at the fire and made sure the chimney was drawing correctly then looked up at Gharal's words. "Could be. I got feverish when I broke my leg last time."

Bendrel placed his hand on the back of Daeron's neck and nodded. "I'll have someone make up a febrifuge..." he raised an eyebrow at Daeron's reaction. "Unless you prefer to be taken back to the Academy and left to the mercy of the healers..."

Daeron gave in. Bendrel had known him his entire life and was one of the few people who could still make him feel like an 8-year old instead of almost 18.

Grethen sat back down and moved the chessboard out of the way. "Well, while we're deciding who is what does any one have any ideas what Val is?"

Bendrel left to see about the medicine as Daeron answered the large cadet. "He's a greyhound. All lanky and lean and fast."

"Unless he trips over his own paws," Gharal interrupted.

Halmir snickered. "So if I'm an otter, Gharal is a mother hen, and Val is a greyhound, what does that make you and Grethen?"

"Gharal already called me a badger. Grethen used to be a tree frog but he's too big for that now. I think he's a bear, what else?"

Halmir turned back to the collapsed house of cards and began to pick them up. 

"Well, Grethen, you're about as big as the great brown bear I saw at last midsummer festival," Gharal said, refilling Daeron's cup. "Here, drink more of this. You're still shivering."

Bendrel came back holding a small cup. "You might wish to wait until you've taken this, Master Daeron." He handed Gharal the willow bark infusion.

Daeron grimaced at the too-familiar scent but accepted the cup and downed it in a single gulp, then grabbed the cup of tea from Gharal. When he finished he handed the dosing cup back to Bendrel and scowling, said, "Couldn't you have at least put some honey in it?"

Before Bendrel could respond, there came the faint sound through the window of several horses hooves and the distinctive sound of a cart coming to a haLieutenant The butler bowed his way from the room and disappeared down the hall to the front door.

"Visitors? But my parents are still in Greyvale..."

A clear feminine voice sounded from hallway. "I'll keep Fin with me, take her things upstairs. Oh, it's good to be home, Bendrel."

"Mother?" Daeron started to rise and fell back against the arm of the couch as he remembered his splinted leg and the ice.

Bendrel's voice said something indistinguishable, and then Meriel was standing in the doorway of the sitting room, the nearly four month old baby cradled in her arms. "Daeron, what have you done to yourself this time?" Her smile belied the scolding words as she advanced to lean over the back of the couch.

"It wasn't my fault," he said automatically. "I thought you weren't going to be back for a fortnight."

Laedren entered the room, stripping off his riding gloves. "There's an outbreak of pox in a couple of the estate villages and your mother didn't want to risk Fin catching it. Why are all of you young men here and not at the academy?"

Grethen, Halmir, and Gharal had gotten to their feet when Meriel appeared.

Grethen answered, "We were given a pass after inspection this morning, sir." He vacated his chair, dusted it off and offered it to Meriel.

"I think they took pity on us after the debriefings," Daeron said, having accepted a kiss from his mother and taken his little sister into his arms. "Hello, Fin-lass. I missed you."

Fin gurgled at him and gave him a gummy smile before grabbing for the strands of hair that hung down in front of his ears.

"Ouch! Here, try this instead." He pulled the tie of his shirt loose and dangled it in front of her.

She stared at the silver aglet clamped around the braided cord with wide eyes and then seized it and pulled it to her mouth to chew on.

"She's teething," Meriel sighed. "Now, you've explained why you are here, but why are you wearing a splint?"

"Sit down, lads," Laedren said as he crossed the room to stand behind Meriel. "I'd like to know the answer to that as well, Daeron."

"I got knocked off of Ruinanor during the last exercise."

Meriel went still. Laedren raised an eyebrow. "I sincerely hope that your report on the exercise gave more detail than that, Daeron."

Gharal snickered quietly behind a hand and Daeron shot him a look that promised mayhem once he was mobile again. He then told his father about the rescue of the POWs and the ensuing skirmish when the runaway mount had crashed into Ruinanor.  
"Balath said the small bone in my leg was broken when I hit the rocks."

Meriel reached out and squeezed his hand. "I'm surprised they let you come here instead of keeping you over at the infirmary or the barracks."

Halmir grinned, "Oh, they tried, ma'am. But Daeron managed to talk my cousin into giving him crutches and promised to not leave the sixth level."

Gharal glanced at the sand glass and began to lift away the iced towel rolls from either side of the splint.

"Finally," Daeron sighed with relief. "Thanks, Gharal."

"You get more ice on it in half an hour," he reminded Daeron. 

"Just so long as I can have more of that hot tea at the same time." Daeron shifted his hold on Finduilas and dropped a kiss on her black curls. Fin chortled at the kiss.

"Is Ruinanor all right?" Laedren sat on the arm of the chair where Meriel sat.

"Her off-hind is cut up pretty extensively but the farrier thinks it will heal eventually. It could be weeks before she can leave her box and months before I can ride her again."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm glad that neither of you were hurt worse," Laedren said. "It sounds like you've had quite an interesting time doing your practicals."

"Interesting is one way of putting it, sir," Grethen said from his seat on the floor next to Halmir. "But Halmir had the most interesting time of the bunch of us."

Halmir's ears reddened, but he didn't say anything. He began to put the deck of cards in order, not meeting Laedren's eyes as the officer looked at him.

"And just what did Halmir do?"

When it became obvious that Halmir wasn't going to say anything Daeron decided to tell Laedren about his friend's triumph. "While I was busy doing the POW rescue, Halmir infiltrated the enemy camp and killed their commander. Captain Hallas was quite surprised to find a knife at his throat when he was taking off his boots according to what I heard." Daeron grinned at Halmir as he finished.

Grethen added, "Captain Lord Faramir was so impressed by hearing about that, Halmir was told off to report to his office after the debriefing this morning."

Laedren smiled at Halmir. "I take it that you won't be in Daeron's cavalry unit after graduation then." He noted that his son's best friend was fidgeting with a scrap of red fabric that was showing at the end of his sleeve. "What's that, Halmir?"

"Come on, Halmir. It's not bragging," Daeron urged his friend.

Halmir blushed harder, "Um..."

Grethen interjected, "It's Captain Hallas' armband. The Captain gave it to him in front of everyone at this morning's inspection."

"And he didn't get any demerits on his appearance as well," Daeron added with a grin.

Halmir huffed, "Well, after four years I ought to be able to get the dress kit done up properly."

"The kit isn't the problem, Hal. It's usually your hair," Gharal put in.

Laedren stroked his wife's hand as he listened to the boys tease Halmir.

Suddenly Finduilas, who had been happily chewing on Daeron's tunic cord began to fuss.

Meriel smiled at Daeron's suddenly discomfited look and reached for her daughter. "I think someone is hungry."

It took a moment to remove the tunic cord from the infant's grip but within a moment or two Finduilas was cuddled against her mother's shoulder. "I'll stop in the kitchens and have Bendrel send your supper here." She added just before she left the room, "And please do return that chair to the study before you go back to the academy tonight."

"Actually, why don't we adjourn to the study now?" Laedren suggested. "It will certainly be more comfortable."

Gharal glanced at Daeron's leg, "He's supposed to keep it elevated, sir."

"That won't be a problem. And then we won't have to face the wrath of my lady if anything gets spilled during supper." Laedren stood up and considered the logistics of moving Daeron to the study.

Halmir picked up Daeron's crutches from the floor beneath the couch and stood ready to hand them to him. 

Before he could say anything further Grethen rose. "I know you have the crutches, Daer. But I think that it would be quicker and easier if I just carry you."

Gharal made sure there was no more water in the leather trough and began to carefully pull the pillows away from his leg.

Daeron looked from the crutches to Grethen and then to his leg. "Oh, great. I'm soaking wet. Mother will kill me if I drip all over her carpet."

Laedren grinned sympathetically at his son. "Why not wrap the leather around your leg and let Grethen carry you as he suggested? That should minimize the risk."

Gharal nodded. "That would work. There's no sense in getting you dry breeches since you'll be having to put more ice on it soon."

Halmir volunteered to return the chair to the study and to let Bendrel know of their relocation while Laedren, Grethen and Gharal saw to Daeron's transfer to the study.

Having handed Laedren the crutches Halmir easily lifted the chair and carried it from the room.

The familiar scent of pipeweed, leather, and books welcomed Daeron as Grethen carried him into the study. Laedren directed him to put Daeron in the chair closest to the fireplace, and Gharal had already moved the ottoman so Daeron's leg could be propped upon it.

Halmir had put the displaced chair back in its usual position and slipped out heading down the hallway towards the kitchen. He returned to the study moments later, having let the butler know about the change of rooms. He was carrying a handful of dry towels. "Thought we could use these," he volunteered.

Daeron sighed with relief as he was lowered into the chair and his leg positioned carefully on the ottoman. "Thanks. I didn't ask Balath how long I was going to have to wear this splint."

Laedren settled behind his desk and reached for the pipe laying there. "Is the bone broken or just cracked?"

"Broken."

"Probably about six weeks then," he said, tamping the leaf he'd taken from the humidor on the desk into the bowl of the pipe.

Daeron let his head flop back against the upholstered back of the chair with a muttered curse, which earned him a raised eyebrow and stern glance from his father. "Sorry. It's just that I..."

"You want to stand in formation and almost die of heat stroke in full dress uniform in front of everyone at graduation," Gharal interrupted. "Consider yourself lucky. You'll get to sit on the sidelines...in the shade...until the class is presented."

Halmir was already bent over the hearth with his firelighter, and when he'd gotten the kindling alight, he carried a lit spill to their host.

Shortly after they were settled in the remaining chairs, and in Halmir's case, on the hearth rug, Bendrel and another servant entered with trays of food and drink, including another pot of the spice tea for Daeron.

"Once you eat, we'll ice your leg again," Gharal told him from his seat next to Laedren's desk.

Laedren looked at Gharal, "You sound like Halmir's cousin. Had you ever thought about becoming a healer instead of a soldier?"

Gharal shrugged, "I wanted to but the apprenticeship is too expensive."

Halmir looked surprised. "You never told us that."

"Well, there wasn't anything I could do about it, and I don't mind being a soldier. Halmir's cousin and some of the other healers are teaching me what they can when I have any free time."

"No wonder you went after than corpsman like that when we were on our way back to the City two years ago," Daeron said.

"Yeah, I thought you were going to skin him alive for the way he treated us," Halmir chimed in.

Gharal shook his head, "Nope, not worth the trouble of skinning him. Too poor quality hide for making anything useful out of it." He reached for his cup and poured more water from the nearby pitcher. "Anyway, I have other things to think about."

Laedren puffed on his pipe, the aroma of the pipeweed blending with the floral scents wafting in the window from the garden outside.

"Like what?" Daeron asked.

"Like how could I have not been killed in the practicals."

"That's easy," Grethen said. "Just don't do them. I don't think there's a single cadet who didn't get 'killed'."

"There wasn't," Laedren said. "The I.G.'s team has orders to take out every single cadet at least once."

"Of course," came a new voice from the door of the study, "some cadets get taken out far more times than that."

The cadets jumped to their feet as their Captain-General entered the study. Gharal put his hand on Daeron's shoulder, keeping him in the chair and Daeron found himself sitting at attention.

"As you were. You're not on duty, lads."

Laedren, also on his feet, smiled. "I wasn't expecting to see you until I reported in tomorrow morning."

"I was in the stables when BrИthil was brought in. Your mount is rather distinctive looking, so I knew you were back even if I had no idea why."

"There's a pox contagion in a couple of the villages on my estate. We didn't want to risk Fin catching it even though we've quarantined both settlements."

Boromir waved the cadets to their seats. "I said 'as you were.' How is my little Fin-lass doing?"

"Teething," Daeron said, holding up the soggy shirt tie she'd been chewing on.

"Hopefully, she's sleeping. Meriel took her upstairs not too long ago." Laedren pushed the pipeweed towards Boromir as the Captain-General settled in the empty chair.

Boromir filled his pipe and surveyed Daeron's splinted leg. "And how are you doing, Daeron? That is new since I spoke with you this morning."

Daeron couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. "It turned out that when I went off Ruinanor, I broke the small bone in my leg."

Boromir winced in sympathy. "And you've been riding and walking on it for three days?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speaking of your leg," Gharal suddenly said after a glance at the sand glass on the study's mantle. "It's time for more ice."

Daeron groaned. "I'm going to have frostbite."

At that moment, Bendrel knocked on the open door frame. He carried another large bowl of ice.

Gharal laughed and nudged Halmir with his boot. "Give me a hand."

Halmir scrambled to his feet and went to take the bowl of ice from the elderly butler.

Bendrel turned towards Laedren, "Would you and Lord Boromir prefer white or red wine, my Lord?"

Laedren deferred to Boromir who shrugged. "Whatever first comes to hand, Bendrel. I'm not picky."

Laedren snorted in amusement. "You're not picky, Ori? And who was it that spent an hour complaining about the rawness of the wine at Lord Vorath's son's coming of age last month?"

"I'm not picky about anything in your cellar, 'Dren," the Steward's Heir clarified. "Vorath's cellar is another matter entirely."

Bendrel nodded and said that he would return shortly with the wine.

Grethen listened to Daeron grumble at Gharal and Halmir as they worked to arrange the ice around the broken leg. "It could be worse, Daeron. It could be January and you could be out in the field in an ice storm." His voice had a wickedly teasing note in it.

"It sounds like there's more to this than meets the ear, doesn't Ori?" Laedren said, a hint of a grin on his face.

"It most certainly does. And what happened during that inauspicious occasion, Grethen?" Boromir asked, snagging an apple from the bowl on the desk and then beginning to peel it with his belt knife.

Daeron wanted to sink through the chair and into the floor. "One word, Grethen, and you'll eat this splint," he growled.

Grethen leaned back in his chair grinning and catching Laedren's eye, mouthed, "I'll tell you later."

Laedren couldn't quite suppress the smile. "It's all right, Daeron, I admit to having some tales about my cadet years that I would much rather never saw the light of day again too."

Gharal noticed that Daeron was beginning to shiver again, despite the fire and the throw that was around his shoulders. "You'd be warmer with some blankets."

Bendrel took the now empty bowl and said that he'd return with some blankets momentarily.

Boromir flicked the apple peel into the fire and commented, "At least the ice is only on your leg. I took a fall from my horse once and the only way to keep the swelling in my hip and thigh down was for me to sit in a streambed. Of course, it was glacier fed. I thought I'd never be warm again."

All of the young men shivered at that thought.

"Until you discovered that our next assignment was on the Harad border," Laedren interjected.

"We either freeze or we fry," commented Halmir.

"Speaking of frying, how was your interview with my esteemed brother?" Boromir asked Halmir. "He certainly seemed happy to have found you in his net."

Halmir grinned. "It really didn't feel like an interview, my lord. He asked me about when I 'killed' Captain Hallas, and about what I thought I could have done better in the exercise. We got into a bit of a discussion on bows and fletching too." He put another piece of wood on the fire. "And then Captain Lord Faramir sent me to the infirmary to check on my friends."

"Was it a discussion or an argument?" Daeron asked curiously, knowing Halmir's predilection for using the term discussion for the latter event.

Halmir gave Daeron a disgusted stare. "It's not an argument when two people agree." His grin returned. "Captain Lord Faramir prefers the same glue and thread fletching method I like to use."

Daeron rolled his eyes. "It's not my fault you called that rather noisy disagreement you had with Sergeant Jothanel a discussion. If you're going to do that, you have to expect me to make the inquiry."

"That was three years ago, Daer."

Laedren grinned at Boromir and decided it would be politic to change the subject. "Daeron, I forgot to ask you before. How did your and Halmir's plan for besieging Dormaelas Keep go over?"

"Well," Daeron said, "Lieutenant Bedreth wanted to know how we knew about the river channel and cliff paths because the map he gave us didn't have them. I told him that we found a more detailed map and when I saw the source of the Keep's water supply, I thought about Romadacil II's siege of the Easterling's trade city."

Halmir snorted with laughter. "Everyone else just looked at Daer like he was speaking Haradric or something. But the lieutenant just rolled his eyes and muttered 'Eagle-beak.'"

"He did want to know just where we found the more detailed map, though." Daeron offered.

"Does he want a copy of mine for himself now?" Laedren asked dryly.

"Yes, he does. But I think he wants it for himself, though, not the students."

Boromir laughed. "'Dren I told you that you could have made a fortune as a cartographer if you ever decided to leave the army."

Bendrel knocked quietly and entered, two thick blankets over his arm, followed by another servant who carried a tray with the wine and more food. "I gathered that you planned to eat here, my lord, so..."

Halmir scrambled to his feet and relieved the butler of the blankets and began to wrap Daeron up in them after taking the tapestry throw from his shoulders. The blankets had been warmed and Daeron settled back into them with a sigh of relief.

"Just put the tray on the desk, Mithrin," Laedren told the other servant. "We'll serve ourselves. Thank you, Bendrel."

Once the two servants left, Grethen stood up and began serving out the foodstuffs. "I remember the discussion that occurred in the barracks after Lieutenant Bedreth released us for the day. Half the class were complaining that you cheated, Daer."

Daeron looked disgusted and Boromir spoke up, "There were more detailed maps in the archives that they could have used if they would have thought of it. It's not cheating to get the best information you can,"

"Besides there wasn't anything in the instructions that said you couldn't acquire better intelligence from other sources," Halmir said.

"And speaking of gathering information, I'd like to learn a bit more about my soon-to-be-commissioned officers." The four young men sat up straighter at Boromir's words, the atmosphere getting subtly more serious. His initial questions were simple and straightforward, concerning where each of the youths came from and their backgrounds, how they had adjusted to the regimented life of the academy and so forth.

But by the time the trays of food were empty, the questions grew more difficult and serious. "Gharal, what would you do if one of the men under your command refused your order?"

Gharal took a deep breath. "First, sir, I'd make certain they had understood the order they were given."

Daeron shifted restlessly at the question but stayed silent, his eyes firmly on the fire.

"If they understood the order and still refused it?"

"If the situation allowed it, I would ask why they were refusing, just in case I was lacking information--but if it was a lawful order, I would have to discipline him. Otherwise, unit discipline and morale would be endangered." He kept his eyes on Lord Boromir, purposefully not glancing at Daeron.

"Halmir? What would you do?"

"In the normal circumstances, I'd do what Gharal said, but," he hesitated, then plunged ahead. "There could be situations where the person refusing the order was endangering the mission, and there wouldn't be time to ask questions. He'd have to be forced to obey, or if that isn't possible, I'd have to pull him from the mission and sort it out afterwards--and hope that his absence wouldn't cause the mission to fail."

Laedren steepled his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, listening to the responses but his gaze remained on his son.

Boromir then turned to Grethen who was straddling one of Laedren's desk chairs, his arms folded on the back. "And you, Grethen. What would you do?"

Grethen responded with a question of his own. "Are we in battle or is battle imminent when the order is refused?"

"Battle is imminent."

Grethen's face grew steely. "I would have no men to spare to guard him in that case, and it would be too dangerous to leave him to his own devices. There'd be no time to talk it over. I'd give him one more chance to obey. If he obeys, I'll deal with it later, assuming we both survive the battle. If not...in that case, I may have to kill him to protect my other men, the mission, and the realm."

Boromir nodded. "Good answers on all your parts. I do pray that all of you will be spared the necessity of having to make the decision to kill one of your own men, but you must always remember that it could come to it." He took a sip of his wine. "We are not technically at war yet, gentlemen, but it is coming--and faster than the Council is willing to believe."

Daeron shivered in spite of the heat of the fire and blankets and hoped that the others took it for a response to the ice his leg was still packed in. He fully expected Lord Boromir to ask him what he'd do but instead the Captain-General asked something else.

"You have orders to take a certain piece of property from the enemy but your information on the surrounding terrain is limited and may even be incorrect. Unseasonable rains have flooded the area and the bridge you expected to be there is washed out. What are you going to do?"

Daeron immediately said, "Send Halmir out with some scouts to steal another bridge."

Gharal and Grethen laughed as Halmir snickered.

Daeron looked up to see what his father's and Lord Boromir's reactions to his comment were. "Well, it worked out the last time I did that."

Laedren was about to scold his son for being facetious, and then stared from Daeron to Halmir and back. "Just a moment--you've actually stolen a bridge?"

Halmir shrugged, "Well actually, I just sort of borrowed it." He added, "We did make sure it got put back where it belonged at the end of the exercise."

Daeron grinned at his father's expression. "We were stuck on the wrong side of a ravine and it was too far to jump. Halmir remembered seeing a plank bridge on a nearby farm during his scouting rounds and he and four of the other cadets went back to get it. I and the others spent the next two hours hiding and practicing our camouflage skills until they got back."

Grethen nodded. "We managed to get it swung out over the ravine, and finished the mission."

Boromir looked as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh or not. Deciding against expressing his amusement at the audacity of the cadets, he raised an eyebrow in the best style of his father and said, "And what did your commander have to say to you regarding your solution to the problem?"

The four youths looked at each other sheepishly and Gharal answered, "Our whole group got put on report and were stuck with stable and middens duty for two weeks."

Halmir added, "And we went to the farmer and apologized for taking the bridge, and spent two days rebuilding it and improving it for him."

Laedren looked at each of the boys in silence then turned his gaze back on his son. "And why is it that I hadn't heard of this escapade before now?"

Daeron gulped and glanced over at Boromir, who looked equally interested in his answer. "You were down south with Lord Forlong for three months. By the time you got back I..." He looked distinctly uncomfortable and somewhat ashamed as his voice faded. "I forgot."

Laedren relaxed and leaned back in his chair, his hand covering the grin that was threatening as he glanced at Boromir.

Boromir looked at Halmir, "You and my brother are two of a kind." He continued, "Now getting back to my original question, what would you do, other than stealing a bridge?"

Gharal looked like he wanted to ask what Lord Faramir had done but thought better of it and considered a possible solution to the problem.

Halmir looked at Daeron, "If I hadn't seen that bridge, you were going to send me and my team out to scout for a better crossing place."

"Yes, I was. I'd definitely send out scouts looking for a better crossing but I'd give them a time and distance limit. In the meantime, I guess I'd see what we had with us that could make the crossing easier for the men."

Grethen spoke up. "Are we strictly a cavalry unit? Or are we accompanied by infantry?"

"It's a mixed company. The officers are mounted as well as twenty general cavalry troops. You have four hundred infantry troops with you."

Grethen was silent for a few minutes then nodded decisively. "Horses would be able to handle high water easier than foot soldiers. I know that my horse has crossed the River Running during the spring floods with no problem. Use the horses to string ropes across the river and flood plain for the infantry to keep hold of while they cross, if we can't find anther, safer crossing."

Daeron shook his head. "That would exhaust the horses and we'll need them when we contact the enemy. We won't have time to rest them."

Gharal spoke up, "What kind of trees are in the area? We'll have plenty of rope and every man has his issued axe in his pack. Cut down several trees and rope them together and make a bridge. Only the men and horses that worked to get them across the river would be worn out. We'd still have the larger portion of the company fit to fight if they cross on the logs."

Boromir interjected that there were no suitable trees for such an undertaking.

Daeron sighed at that bit of information. "If Halmir and the scouts couldn't find a better crossing, I think we're going to have to do it the way Grethen suggested, praying to the Valar that we don't lose anyone to hypothermia or drowning." He then shot a look at Gharal. "And speaking of hypothermia, can I get rid of this ice yet?"

Gharal looked at the hour glass and watched the last few seconds of sand run out. He nodded and began to remove the soggy rolls and dropped them into the now empty ice bowl. "Halmir, toss me those extra towels. Daeron, how does your foot feel?" Gharal asked.

"It's so cold, I can't feel it." Daeron turned back to Boromir. "What would you do in such a situation, sir?"

The erstwhile healer/soldier shook his head and moved so that he could remove the sock that covered the foot on the splinted leg. He took one of the warmed towels and began to vigorously rub it from the ankle to toes and back again, being careful not to jerk the limb around.

"I'd play it by ear, Daeron. And I'd consult my sergeants as to how they think the problem should be solved." He looked at Laedren and smiled crookedly. "That's something your father used to have to remind me to do. Your sergeants are a valuable resource. You have to be responsible for what is done, but any senior non-commissioned officer worth his salt is a gold mine of information and expertise."

Laedren poured out another two cups of wine and handed one to Boromir. "Your grandfather always used to say when he was a Lieutenant that the best advice he ever received was to say "yes, sir" to your superior officer and then go tell your sergeant that you need whatever it is done by when. He said half of his promotions were due to the brains and work of his NCOs." He grinned. "He also said that officers are the men able to determine what needs to be done while NCOs are the men who know how to do it."

Grethen said, "I'll be sure to remember that." He handed Daeron another cup of hot tea. "I wish we'd had experienced NCOs with us on the practicals--I mean ones who were on our side and not on the red team." He grinned.

Daeron accepted the tea and returned Grethen's grin. "Well, when we're in the field next time, they will be on our side."

Laedren looked at Halmir. "We got side tracked and I still don't have the story about that bit of red fabric you've got stuffed up your sleeve."

"You're not going to get out of telling the story, Hal. You've known my father long enough to know that," Daeron said.

Halmir made a face at Daeron then picked up his own cup as he settled in to tell the tale. "My team was assigned to disrupt the red team's outer pickets. And my team mates did a pretty good job of distracting them from the POW raid. I thought Terret's idea of throwing that pair of geese into the north sentry's way was inspired."

"While they were dealing with being attacked by angry geese, I sneaked to the picket lines and, well, I untethered about half of the horses and sabotaged the saddle blankets, and then moved on to see what else I could find out since there was no way I was going to make it out of the camp back the way I came without running into too many of the red team."

"Not to mention two very angry geese," Daeron laughed.

Gharal interjected, "You left out about getting yourself covered with mud. I'm guessing that happened when you and Terret grabbed the geese?"

Boromir looked at the bemused expression on Laedren's face and gave up on trying to keep a straight face.

"The mud was just a fortuitous accident," Halmir said, "But when I realized that my bright blue arm band wasn't noticeable anymore, I decided to take advantage of it. We'd already accomplished disrupting the pickets, so even if I got captured, it wouldn't impact our mission." He took a drink to wet his throat. "I sneaked through the camp until I got to the headquarters area, and then I worked my way to Commander Hallas' tent."

Gharal finished fussing over Daeron's leg and looked up. "I want to know how you managed that. Muddy armband or no, someone had to have recognized you for a cadet."

Halmir looked offended, "I made myself look as if I belonged there." He got to his feet and suddenly, with a few subtle shifts of stance, he was no longer the gangly exuberant youth, but a tired-looking but confident trooper going to report to his commander.

Grethen shuddered, "I've seen you do that dozens of times and it still bothers me, Hal."

Halmir ignored the comment and walked across the room towards the door, and then out of it, before returning a few moments later, looking like himself.

"I'm just glad he's on our side!" Laedren told Boromir.

"Well, that explains how you managed to get to the commander's tent but how did you manage not to be seen when you were in there?" Daeron asked.

Halmir grinned. "It pretty dark in there with plenty of shadows... I got around to the back side of Commander Hallas' tent and lay down right along the bottom of the rear wall. I quietly worked the pegs out and when I had enough room, I rolled under the wall and lay there until the Commander sat down on his cot."

"And with the mud all over your uniform, you blended right in." Daeron shook his head in admiration. 

"And then, while he was taking off his boots--I got him." Halmir grinned.

Grethen asked, "How long did you have to wait for the commander?"

Halmir thought for a moment. "It was just before dawn when I began to work on the tent pegs, and Anor was only coming up over the trees when I rolled into the tent. I just stayed put until Captain Hallas came in to eat his lunch. He was limping and I think he had a stone in his boot, so when he bent over to take the boot off to deal with it..."

"And you said that you didn't have the patience to do leatherworking." Daeron snorted. "I know I couldn't have held still for that long."

Halmir shrugged, grinned and resumed his seat on the hearth rug.

Grethen said, "You still haven't told us how you got out of the camp alive."

"I left pretty much the way I came in... out the bottom of the tent and when I got far enough away from it, I just projected that I belonged there and headed for the picket lines, which were in chaos by that point. I borrowed a horse, removed the chestnut burr from the saddle pad and headed back to our HQ. Captain Hallas was a good sport about it and said he wouldn't call an alert since he was supposed to be dead." Halmir paused. "I suppose I was awfully lucky that his aide didn't come in and find him 'dead'. That would definitely have raised an alert."

"But what are you doing with the red armband?" Laedren asked. "Armbands are all supposed to be turned in at the end of every exercise."

"I turned it in."

"Dendren presented Halmir with the armband at inspection this morning," Boromir explained since it was obvious that Halmir wasn't going to say anything more.

Laedren shook his head. "Will wonders never cease?" He was prevented from saying anything more by the sound of the tocsin sounding the beginning of the second evening watch.

Before the last echo of the bell faded, Bendrel knocked and entered the room, carrying a sealed note. "Your pardon, but a message has just been delivered from the Citadel for Lord Boromir."

Boromir took the message, broke the seal and frowned as he read the contents. He folded the paper and tucked it into the front of his tunic. "Laedren, my father has just summoned the two of us to an emergency council meeting."

Laedren nodded and reached for the sword belt that he'd set aside when they'd come into the study earlier in the day and looked at Daeron and the other cadets. "I trust that you'll manage to get back to your barracks without any trouble. Good luck on your exams." He paused a moment to squeeze Daeron's shoulder then followed Boromir from the room.

Daeron looked after them for some minutes in silence, wondering just what had happened that the Steward was calling a council meeting at this late hour of the night. Then realizing that his friends and fellow cadets were looking at him questioningly, he reached for his crutches. "Well, we better do as we're told and get back to the Academy. I'm sure we'll find out what it's all about eventually."

TBC 


	10. Rites of Passage Part 3

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Through Daeron's Eyes - Rites of Passage, Part III

By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle

The morning after the last of the written examinations the residents of the Academy's senior barracks were preparing for the day while discussing the last four days where it seemed that they were asked for every scrap information that had been taught them over the past four year years.

Val rubbed the fingers of his right hand and grimaced as he tried to button his tunic. "I don't know what feels worse, the writer's cramp or the headache I got when I tried to remember dates of different campaigns."

Daeron offered him a commiserating glance as he reached for his crutches. "For me it's the writer's cramp. I think I used up three bottles of ink on the essays alone."

Halmir looked up from where he was putting on his field boots. "What I hate is that after we turned everything in, I began to remember all those bloody details that I couldn't think of in the middle of the essays."

Gharal handed Daeron the flask of medicine that Balath insisted he take if he was going to be using the crutches. "Here, don't forget this. That happened to me, too. As soon as I stepped out of the room, that's when I finally remembered that equation for maximum loading on a type-three trebuchet."

Halmir stood up and fastened his belt and asked, "So what are you going to do all day today since there's no more exams and we're not on watch?"

"Well, can we finish our post mortem at breakfast?" Grethen asked from the doorway. "I'm starving."

Val perked up. "Food sounds great. I still have all those meals I slept through to make up." He skirted around Daeron and joined Grethen.

"Why don't we all go get breakfast and then we can decide what we want to do," Daeron said as he levered himself up from where he had been sitting on his foot locker.

Halmir ran his hands over his hair in a vain attempt to smooth down the flyaway strands then shrugged and followed Daeron. 

The dining hall was busy but the tables reserved for the seniors were mostly empty. Gharal pushed Daeron towards the table they usually sat at and said, "Sit down and save our places. I'll get your plate."

"All right! Just remember no mushrooms!" He called and slid onto the end of the bench and sourly considered his splinted leg. Just his luck, both he and his horse were lame.

Gharal looked at the tables and asked, "Why is it that we are up so early when we could have slept in?"

"Habit?" Val suggested as he reached for a tray and headed for the serving hatch.

"We're morning people?" Halmir put in.

"We don't want to get the dregs of whatever it is they're giving us for breakfast?" Grethen suggested as he snagged three of the best looking store apples from the basket next to the hatch. "What's on the menu this morning anyway?" he asked the tired looking cook who was in charge of dishing up.

"It doesn't have a pulse and it's hot." The cook responded in a surly voice.

"Ha, ha! Very funny." Grethen held out his tray and a loaded plate was dropped onto it without ceremony. The large cadet then requested an additional plate for Daeron "Without mushrooms," he reminded the cook. "Unless you want to explain to Lord Laedren Greyvale why his only son and heir dropped dead after eating a breakfast cooked by you."

Halmir snickered as Grethen name-dropped. 

The cook grumbled but he went deeper into the kitchen and filled a plate sans mushrooms and handed that to Grethen.

"Thank you," Grethen said pleasantly and turned towards the table where Daeron waited. "Here, no mushrooms. What do you want to drink?"

Halmir followed Grethen to the table and dropped his tray next to Daeron's. "Small ale is probably safest."

"No thanks, that draught makes everything except water taste bad."

"Unless the water was boiled... how about some tea, Daer?" asked Gharal.

"That will work, I guess. Thanks."

Shortly all of the cadets were seated and making inroads on the food. 

Halmir glanced over to the hatch and wondered aloud if there was a chance he could get seconds.

Gharal snorted, "You can try, but grumpy guts there isn't very generous."

"If he had been, I wouldn't be wanting seconds. Well," he swung his legs over the bench and stood up. "The worst that can happen is he'll say no."

"Anyone want to bet on whether he's successful or not?" Val asked.

Halmir gave him a withering look and headed for the hatch.

Daeron couldn't help a grin as he shook his head. "This is Halmir we're talking about here. If anyone can seconds out of Grumpy, he will."

Grethen snickered.

Daeron finished the scrambled eggs and looked askance at the limp bacon before beginning on the grilled tomatoes. "So what are you doing today, since we have all this free time?"

Val glanced back at the kitchen hatch where Halmir was only visible from the waist down, apparently in close conversation with the cook. "I'd wager that Halmir finds his way to the archery range at some point today but I don't bet on sure things."

Gharal reached over and poured more tea into Daeron's mug. "I'm going to spend some time over in the infirmary and see if I can get Balath to show me some more things. Once we graduate, we'll be sent out to our postings within the fortnight and I'd better take advantage of his generosity while I can."

"Gharal, I have a broken leg, not a broken arm. I can pour my own tea," Daeron growled with exasperation. "I appreciate all the help you've given me but..."

Val nodded. "Gharal, do you want me to talk to my Uncle Adoan? Maybe he'll let you come into the Houses of Healing after the graduation ceremony and before we leave for our assignments."

"Would you?" Gharal looked ecstatic at the idea. "That would be wonderful!"

"It can't hurt to ask. How on Arda did we know you for so long and not realize until just a couple of weeks ago that you wanted to be a healer?"

Gharal shrugged. "I can't afford the apprenticeship fees to become a real healer, so I just figured it would be easier not to talk about it."

Halmir came back to the table, bearing a grin and a new tray filled with eggs, bread and sausages. He picked up on the conversation and, loading his fork with scrambled eggs, said, "Well, you never know. It looks like I'm going to get to follow my dream... maybe one day you'll get to follow yours."

Grethen pushed his empty plate away and shook his head at the sight of Halmir's tray. "Where do you put it?"

Daeron glanced over at Halmir's tray and said, "His mother claimed that someone cast a spell on his stomach when he was an infant so that there's always room for more food, even though it never ends up on his bones."

The majority of the underclassmen had finished eating and headed out for their assigned classes and duties while some other seniors wandered in, most of them bleary-eyed and looking rather the worse for wear.

Halmir shrugged and kept on eating.

Gharal smirked and excused himself as three of the hung over cadets headed in his direction. "I have some customers. You know, Halmir I ought to pay you royalties. If it weren't for that still you helped Lorimer build, I'd have no market for my hangover cure."

Gharal met the three cadets and led them over to a corner where money and three small flasks changed hands. All seemed pleased with the transaction and Gharal returned to the table after putting the proceeds in his belt pouch.

"Hmmm. Now why didn't I think of that?" Halmir swallowed down the last of the sausages and gulped his mug of small ale. "I'm going to get my bow and head for the practice range. Anyone want to join me?"

Daeron pushed his plate away and reached for his crutches. "I'll meet you there after I've checked on Ruinanor."

Val collected his plate and eating irons and mug and put them on Daeron's tray and stood to carry them to the scullery. "I'll come watch. It's no use taking wagers; everyone knows that you're the best archer of our year."

Grethen added, "And of the three years below us too."

"I'll see you in a bit, then." Daeron hobbled out of the dining hall and into the sunlight. He should have taken Rolin's bet that it would be miserable weather today because they had liberty. For once the sun was warm without being too hot, there was just the slightest of breezes and it was altogether a good day for lazing around and relaxing. However, he didn't want to give in to the temptation to emulate a stone lizard until after he'd checked on his mare.

Halmir waved as he headed for the barracks to get his archery gear. "Scratch Ruinanor's ears for me," he called.

Val was sitting on the wall that separated the archery lanes from the drill yard when Daeron arrived from the stable.

Daeron looked at the wall and sighed. The best view would be from on the wall but Gharal was giving him a look that promised mayhem if he so much as thought about climbing up there. "So has Halmir started shooting yet?"

"No. He's going through his 'routine'," Val hopped down from the wall. "Checking fletching and all that."

Grethen appeared and said in a low voice, "It looks like we're going to have company; there's a half dozen Rangers headed this way. Don't tell Halmir"

Daeron shrugged and leaned against the wall. He was depressed. The farrier was not happy with Ruinanor's progress and he'd been muttering about "possible laminitis" and "extreme treatments." The mare was still in pain and was off her feed.

Grethen noted Daeron's demeanor and asked how Ruinanor was doing and looked concerned at the answer. "That's too bad, Daeron. If she is developing laminitis, I don't think there's much that can be done for her."

Halmir set the last of his arrows into the quiver and swung it onto his back, satisfied they were as they should be, and then turned towards his friends. "Sure none of you want to shoot with me?"

Daeron was conflicted about what to do about the bay mare. He hated for her to suffer but was reluctant to give the farrier the order to put her down. He started at Halmir's question then answered, "Sorry, Hal. I'm two hands short."

Gharal shrugged, "Why not? I can use the practice."

"Good, a bit of competition makes it more interesting." The breeze flicked a strand of his hair in Halmir's face and the cadet muttered to himself and pulled an extra bowstring from the pocket on the side of the quiver and tied the shoulder length locks into a queue with a quick looping motion. "That's better."

"Why don't you just cut it short?" Grethen asked.

Gharal collected a bow and some arrows and strapped a bracer onto his left arm. "Are you shooting right-handed or left handed?" he asked.

"Yeah, and then I'll really fail inspection for having messy hair. Daeron can tell you how awful it looks cut short." Halmir answered Grethen's question then turned to Gharal. "I'll start left handed... give you a better chance to beat me," he grinned.

Unlike most archers, Halmir wore arm guards on both forearms.

Daeron snickered, Halmir's words bringing back a memory from when they were 11 years old. "He's right, it's even more unmanageable when it's cut sort. He ends up looking like a dandelion puff."

Lady Penraen's youngest son laughed, "That's an understatement... it looked like a giant dandelion puff." He took his place at the firing line and waited for Gharal to join him. 

Gharal finished stringing his bow and stepped up to the line. He turned to look at his friends and saluted. "We who are about to die of embarrassment salute you."

Grethen and Val laughed. "Good luck, Gharal," the latter said, "I won't make book on this match."

Halmir gave an exaggerated bow to them, nocked an arrow, took his stance, and drew the string back easily to the point of his jaw. "Ready whenever you are, Gharal."

"I'm ready," Gharal answered, also having drawn his bow.

Grethen cleared his throat. "Free shooting, 12 arrows, then we'll move the targets and try something else. Ready, fire!"

Halmir loosed the arrow and had the next drawn and nocked even before the watching cadets reacted to the first hit.

Gharal's first shot just missed the center of the target and he was slower than Halmir in nocking a new arrow. The would be healer fired his second shot and continued until he'd fired all twelve arrows. 

One after another, the dozen shafts peppered the target, and Halmir relaxed, grinning as he saw that he'd clustered every arrow in the center ring.

"Show off," Grethen called good naturedly.

Gharal shrugged. He'd been reasonably accurate, any of his shots would have severely injured and possibly killed an opponent but while Halmir's arrows were clustered together such that a man could close his hand around all twelve and still make a fist, Gharal's arrows were more widely scattered. "Well, that went better than I expected," He said as they moved down range to collect their arrows.

Val glanced towards the entrance of the archery range and grinned. "I think you need to move the targets back," he called. "Put them at 20 yards."

"Why not?" Gharal dropped his arrows into his quiver and dragged the butt back to the chalk mark indicating 20 yards. Halmir did likewise, after checking each of his arrows to make sure the fletching hadn't been stripped in flight. When he turned back to the firing line after shifting his target, he noted the half-dozen newcomers, clad in the uniforms of the Ithilien Rangers.

It wasn't unusual to have the Army regulars use the Academy facilities, but knowing that members of the unit he desired to join would see his skill sent a frisson of excitement through Halmir.

Grethen nudged Daeron and nodded towards the Rangers. He whispered, "Do you recognize any of them?"

Daeron looked across to the newcomers and that surely was... "Lord Faramir!" he whispered back.

Halmir hadn't seen the Ranger Captain before the cadet turned to face the target again. "What now, Grethen?"

"Speed shoot from the quiver. Twelve arrows on my mark." He paused a moment. "Three...Two.. One... Mark!"

Again, a dozen arrows found their target, and Halmir had completed his set before Gharal had loosed eight.

"You've been practicing without me, Gharal! Last time you only got five before I was done. Good job!"

"Thanks. Yes, I've been practicing. A certain mutual friend was pretty insistent about it." Gharal gave a wave to Val who saluted jauntily back.

Halmir chuckled. He was about to suggest they collect their arrows when one of the Rangers called a warning to the firing line, and then ordered "Fire!"

Val leaned over and nudged Daeron, "Look at Halmir.. .doesn't he look like a child in front of the sweets shop window?"

Daeron nodded. "I hope that Lord Faramir accepts him in the Rangers. Halmir won't survive three months in the cavalry without being up on charges."

The veritable rain of arrows from the Rangers' bows ceased as quickly as it had begun and the "all clear" was called.

Gharal had to tug on Halmir's arm to get him to turn to go down range to retrieve his arrows. "Come on, you don't want to keep them waiting."

Halmir flushed a bit as he realized he was staring, and jogged to his own target. Again he checked the arrows, discovered one had loosened fletching, and tucked it into his belt rather than the quiver. "Thirty yards this time?" he asked.

"Why not?" Gharal agreed good-naturedly and moved his target.

"Bet Grethen gives us called shots this time," Halmir said as they turned to go back to the firing line.

"Of course he will. And I'm going to lose spectacularly and retire to sit in the shade while you pepper the forty yard target till it cries for mercy."

"And when I'm done you'll get me an ale and we can figure out what to do with the rest of the day."

"Sounds good to me."

They reached the firing line and Halmir adjusted the guard on his right arm. "You really have improved, you know."

"That's only because you and Val made me work at it. I was utterly hopeless until you decided that I needed more practice. Besides, you're a better teacher than Sergeant Karal."

"Well, if I don't ..." Halmir shook his head.

"Are you going to stand there and talk all day or are you going to shoot? " Val asked in a joking voice.

"We're waiting for range master Grethen to tell us what to shoot," Gharal called back.

"Called shots. Speed is good. Accuracy is better." Grethen replied.

"Both are best!" Daeron called out.

"Ready? Ten, third ring!"

He chanted out the positions quickly, challenging his friends as they had to listen for the command and still get the shot off fast enough to fire the next one.

Halmir was so focused that he didn't realize that the Rangers were also firing in accordance with Grethen's calls.

When the last arrow landed, Gharal lowered his bow and took a deep breath. "That's it for me today."

Grethen had noticed the Rangers has followed his calls and grinned. "All clear, retrieve your arrows!"

Halmir was pleased to see that eleven of the dozen arrows had been precisely placed, and the one that was off, was off by less than an inch. 

He took two steps down range and then realized that the Rangers had also been firing. He stole a glance at the other targets and his eyes widened as he saw that they had gotten a 95 success rate, and the archer at the furthest butt had a perfect score.

When he reached the target he found that one of the fletchings on the off set arrow had been stripped off and made a mental note to refresh the glue in his repair kit.

"I'll move your target for you," Gharal offered. "Why don't you see if there's anything to drink before Grethen makes you fire two dozen shots."

"Sounds good. Thanks." Then Halmir turned and walked back up range.

Daeron sighed and readjusted his position against the wall. crutches or no, he really needed to sit down somewhere soon.

A handful of other cadets had come into the range, drawn by Val's cheers at Halmir's performance. One of them, who had arrived before the arrows were retrieved, had a water skin slung over his shoulder, and offered it to Halmir.

Gharal returned from moving the target to the end of the range, a good 40 yards from the firing line. He didn't shoot that distance, having only recently been able to get 30 yards with any reasonable accuracy. He left his quiver for Halmir's use then went to where Daeron was leaning against the wall. "How's the leg?"

"You did great, Gharal. The leg hurts, as usual. The one thing I forgot about was that there's nowhere to sit out hear except on the wall."

"I'll take care of that. Be right back." Gharal went to the entrance of the yards and corralled two passing junior cadets, and asked them to bring a bench for Daeron to use.

Again Halmir checked his arrows, and the ones in Gharal's quiver. He tucked the second damaged shaft next to the first through his belt at the small of his back and then slung Gharal's quiver next to his own.

By the time Halmir was ready to shoot again, the juniors had carried in a bench borrowed from the dining hall and placed it so that Daeron could lean against the wall while he watched the shooting.

One of the Rangers called to his group, "Two dozen, rapid fire. Top three shooters continue on."

"Thanks," Daeron said with relief as he settled onto the bench and felt the warmth of the stones behind him soak into his back. Now he could relax and enjoy watching his best friend do the thing he did best of all.

Halmir looked to Grethen, who shrugged. The archer drew his bowstring, and listened for the command to fire.

The gathered cadets fell silent and Daeron found he was holding his breath.

The sound of 168 arrows whistling through the air drew the attention of more of the Academy's denizens. Even the Commandant, who was passing the entrance to the yard in the company of several important visitors stopped to observe.

Halmir dragged in a deep breath when he fired his last shot and distinctly heard two more shots go off after he'd finished.

The Ranger who had called out the order to "fire", headed down range and began to tally the scores. He waved off four of the Rangers who went to lean on their bows near the wall where Daeron sat.

He then bowed towards the remaining two Rangers and, to Halmir's shocked surprise, to Halmir, before going to join the observers. "Clear the targets!"

Val hooted and punched the air. "Go, Halmir!"

The sight of one of his cadets sharing the line with the Ithilien Rangers on a 40 yard speed shoot, was too intriguing so the Commandant asked his guests f they wished to stay and see the results before going on to their meeting.

Halmir gulped and went to retrieve his arrows. The only damage to the target was in the center ring and the inner part of the next.

Daeron gave Halmir an encouraging grin before, with the unerring ability of a cadet to recognize the presence of high ranking individuals, turning to see who had come in with the Commandant.

"Ready on the firing line!"

"Val! Look!" he hissed, nudging him with the tip of his crutch.

"Oh my. I hope Halmir didn't notice.'

Grethen muttered, "Don't worry. He can't see anything but Ranger green and brown."

Halmir was barely in position when the command to fire came again.

Once more, Daeron found he was holding his breath.

The six dozen arrows again found their targets, the last shots of each hitting their marks at virtually the same moment.

The Ithilien Ranger officer went to count points, while the enlarged audience waited in excited silence.

"Breathe Daeron, blue isn't your color," Gharal reminded him in a whisper, handing him the waterskin.

"I'll try," Daeron returned in an equally soft whisper.

"Sorry, Damrod. The lad's got one more than you."

"Clear the targets!"

Halmir stared wide-eyed at the two Rangers on the firing line and went pale as he realized just who the one furthest away from him was. He dropped to one knee and bowed, "My Lord Captain Faramir!"

The Steward's younger son shook his head and waved for Halmir to rise. "Go retrieve your arrows, cadet," he grinned. Halmir immediately obeyed, and returned to the firing line, looking slightly dazed. Then, as he looked at the empty target, he dragged in a deep breath and switched his bow to his left hand.

Faramir retrieved his own arrows and returned to his spot on the line. "Damrod, will you do the honours?" Noting that Halmir was now prepared to shoot right-handed he raised an eyebrow. "So you aren't left-handed?"

"No, sir. I shoot left handed against Gharal to keep from trouncing him too thoroughly." Halmir flushed a bit. He nocked his first arrow and waited for the command to begin.

Faramir shot an amused glance at his brother who stood with the Commandant and his uncle and cousin. "I've done the same a time or two, myself." He turned towards the target and set his arrow. "Whenever you're ready, Damrod."

"Fire!" Halmir got off the first six shots in record time and accuracy, but as he drew back for the seventh, the bowstring broke. Without pause he reached up and yanked on the short end of the string holding his hair out of his face, had restrung the bow and was again firing down range as quickly as he could.

His last two shots hit after Faramir's last impact.

"Eru's blood!" gasped Val.

Faramir released his focus on the target as his final arrow left the bow. He heard rather than saw Halmir's last two arrows land in the target and realized the crowd was abuzz.

He turned towards the cadet whose hair was now hanging loose about his shoulders and realized a broken bowstring lay on the ground in front of the cadet. "You replaced your bowstring and still were only two arrows behind?" He was amazed and come flood, fire, or famine he was going to have this boy for the Ithilien Rangers even if it meant buying Boromir every cask of Lebbinese red wine available in the city to do it.

Halmir was shaking, his hands trembling on the bow as he stared downrange at the target. He'd done it. He'd actually out shot real Rangers. He jerked as he realized that Faramir had spoken to him. "My lord?"

"I was asking if you had replaced your bowstring in the middle of that shoot. I wouldn't believe it except that the broken string is lying there at your feet."

Halmir looked down at it and stooped to pick it up. "It was just by chance I'd used my spare to tie my hair back, sir."

Before Daeron could reach Halmir he noticed Lord Boromir, the Commandant and his father heading for Faramir and Halmir. "Atten-tion!" he called in his best parade ground voice.

The shouting and cheering cadets immediately fell silent. Halmir snapped to attention, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers clenched around his bow and the other hand clutching the broken string.

Faramir turned, saw his brother and gave a mock scowl. "You didn't tell me he was ambidextrous, Ori."

Boromir shrugged and grinned at Halmir. "I figured you'd want to find out about him on your own. Besides, would you have believed me? Congratulations, Cadet. Excellent shooting."

"Th-thank you, sir." Reaction to the adrenaline rush was beginning to catch up with Halmir, and he flushed in dismay at the stutter and in embarrassment at the public praise by the Captain-General.

Daeron's father and Captain Osril, the academy Commandant, also offered their congratulations. Once he'd spoken to Halmir Captain Osril turned to Boromir and Laedren. "My lords, if we're going to have you back at the Citadel before luncheon, we really should..." and gestured towards his office.

"We'll be right with you, Captain," Boromir said before glancing at Laedren. His adjutant was gazing thoughtfully at his son, who while looking happy for his friend's accomplishment, looked tense...far more tense than being in the immediate presence of high-ranking officers should make a senior cadet.

The Commandant nodded and headed out of the gate, taking his other staff members with him. As soon as he was gone Ori called out, "As you were!"

Grethen and Gharal were suddenly pounding Halmir on the back, again excitedly cheering, and freed from having to stand still, Daeron made his way over to Halmir. "That was fantastic shooting, Halmir. Congratulations."

Faramir smiled at the exuberance of the cadets and stepped back, gesturing for Damrod to join him. Damrod slipped up to stand next to Faramir with his usual quietness and economy of movement, "Yes, sir?"

Halmir became more uncomfortable with the attention he was getting, even that from his friends, and whilst he was proud of his performance, the adulation was something he was not ready to cope with after four years of being in trouble most of the time. "Thanks. Although I don't think I could repeat it after getting pounded by our giant here." He cast a mock-angry glance at Grethen and then snickered. When he looked back at Daeron, he sobered, sensing something not quite right about his friend. "Are you all right?"

"It's just my leg," Daeron answered with a shrug, "I think I've been on it too long this morning."

Before Halmir could scold him into sitting down again, another wave of senior cadets had engulfed him and pulled him away from his best friends.

Grethen and Val, having heard Daeron's words, immediately steered him towards the bench again. "We won't get him out of here until they've all had a chance to congratulate him and rub his arm for good luck so, sit down!" Grethen told him.

Gharal intercepted the three cadets and bullied them into getting Daeron to leave the range entirely. Laedren watched as Daeron was led away and made a decision. There was something more than the broken leg troubling his son. "Ori, would you give my excuses to your father? I think I'd better see what's going on with Daeron once our meeting here is over."

"Of course." Boromir followed Laedren's gaze to the small knot of cadets moving at Daeron's slow hobbling pace. "I'll expedite our meeting so you can see to him," 'he added, "But you'll need to give father another bottle of that red wine he's so fond of to make amends."

"Thank you."

Just then, the bellow of one of the training sergeants sounded from the entrance. "Clear the range!" A horde of third years, agog at the hubbub of the seniors and finding Rangers there, milled into the range.

Halmir, unable to deal with any more attention, gave into temptation, and taking advantage of the additional confusion, slipped into his chameleon persona and vanished into the mass of teenagers, intending to retrieve his arrows later.

Faramir finished his quiet exchange with Damrod and turned back to locate Halmir as the sergeant slipped away again. He frowned as he realized that the youth was nowhere in sight. 

"Come along, little brother," Boromir said, slapping Faramir on the shoulder. "I think your bird has flown."

Laedren fell in beside them as Boromir strode towards the commandant's office. "Perhaps, your brother has some suggestions for who he wants assigned to Henneth Annun?" he said slyly.

Faramir shook his head in amazement. "If he can disappear in the wild as easily as he just did here I certainly want him. I know I had my eye on him and then..." he gestured with his hands as if tossing something away, "...he was gone."

Laedren nodded. "He's been able to do it since he was a child. Drove his mother into hysterics once when he disappeared from a family party in the middle of a thunderstorm--and turned up in his own room happily fletching arrows, after the entire sixth level was turned upside down looking for him."

Boromir snorted and increased his pace, "Well, you can look for him later. Father will have my hide if I'm late for luncheon again and for once there aren't any females invited, so if you don't mind..."

"Poor, Ori," Faramir teased. "You're not going to escape forever, you know." He ducked away, out of reach of his brother's threatening arm, laughing as they passed through the arch that led to the Commandant's office.

hr

The breeze that the walls around the archery had blocked was able to move freely over Halmir's perch, blowing his hair across Halmir's face. Up here in his private (and not exactly legal) refuge he was finally able to relax for the first time since he'd escaped the archery range. Now that he was away from the embarrassing delighted turmoil of the spectators' reaction to his accomplishment, he was able to find pleasure in it--along with astonishment. 

Rangers... He'd outshot real Rangers and had made a more than credible competitor against Lord Captain Faramir himself! Then his train of thought was broken as his stomach rumbled noisily, and he laughed out loud.

"You'd better do something about that if you're not going to give away your position."

The cadet found himself in a defensive crouch, his hand clasping the knife he'd automatically snatched from his belt, and then flushed as he recognized the voice of the Ranger Captain.

Faramir dropped lightly to the tiled roof from the ridgepole and tossed Halmir a packet wrapped in waxed cloth before sitting down next to him.

Halmir snatched the packet out of the air and resheathed his knife at the same time. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," Faramir said as he unslung a waterskin from across his chest. He made no comment about having the knife pulled on him. He'd rather expected it and was pleased at the speed of the cadet's reflexes. "Nice view isn't it?"

Halmir settled again and nodded. "I come up here when things get..." he trailed off and gazed out across the Pelennor towards Ithilien again.

The Ranger captain sat the waterskin down between them and began to unwrap his own packet. "...to be too much. I know. I spent a lot of time up here myself as a cadet. I think I could find my way across the Pelennor to the River and across to Ithilien blindfolded, I stared out there enough."

The waxed packet resting forgotten in Halmir's hands, the youth turned his head and gazed at Faramir in surprise. "You did? Sir," he added belatedly and cursed his fair skin as he flushed again.

"Oh, yes. I wasn't exactly the epitome of cadets. I think the only reason I was allowed to graduate at all was because I was the Steward's son. I don't think anyone's managed to beat the number of demerits I earned here."

"Well, if I haven't, I've come close," Halmir sighed and finally opened the packet he held finding it contained a substantial meatroll. "Like I told you when you asked me to report to your office, until the practicals, I don't think I got through a week without messing up something."

Faramir tore a piece off his own meatroll and ate it, waiting for Halmir to continue. He smiled reminiscently as he recalled one or two of the more outrageous stunts he'd pulled and how they'd ended up being the basis for some rather unorthodox but very successful sorties against the Southron invaders once he was out in the field for real.

"I never did anything bad enough to get flogged or anything like that, sir," he continued, "but I just can't seem to think like a cavalryman should. And so I answer questions wrong, make the wrong decisions, and, well..."

"Gondor needs her cavalry, but she needs other kinds of soldiers as well," the older man said, his eyes still on the landscape beyond the city. "Cavalry are useless for sneak attacks, and pretty much any fighting on broken ground or amongst trees." He took another bite of his lunch then glanced over at Halmir. "Are you jealous of your friend?"

The question surprised Halmir, but he took his time and thought about it before he answered. Finally, he shook his head. "Daeron? No, sir. Not really. I mean, yes, he's the heir to his father's demesne, and he's saved your brother's life, and has been honoured by the Steward; but we've been best friends since we were in skirts. I'm happy that he's been so successful. It's come with a high price for him, and he deserves every accolade he's been given. And I'm the first to stand up and cheer him on. My--talents--lie in different areas than Daeron's; and I'm finally realizing that isn't anything to be ashamed of."

"Good." Faramir took a drink from the waterskin and handed it to Halmir. "You shouldn't be ashamed to be yourself or of your abilities."

Halmir's stomach rumbled again and he finally bit into his meatroll. After he swallowed his first bite, he looked at the Captain. "Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"This morning, did you come to the range to--um, check out the seniors' abilities?" he flushed slightly, realizing that it sounded as if he were asking if Faramir had come to the range specifically to see him shoot.

"No, It was simply a coincidence that you were there. I always take time to go to the range when I'm in the City. But my brother did say that it was likely that some of the seniors might take advantage of having the day free to practice. I honestly didn't expect that any of you would be there." He grinned. "I would have been up here enjoying the peace and quiet instead".

The two sat in silence for a while, finishing off the meatrolls before Faramir spoke again. "What do you think it is like to be a Ranger?"

Halmir took a drink of water, and answered, after wiping off his mouth, "Hard, dangerous, but satisfying." He glanced down at the crumbs from the meatroll that lay in his lap and brushed them into his palm. "Hungry a lot--if you're hunting orcs, I doubt you have much time to hunt deer or coneys." He smiled wryly, and then popped the crumbs into his mouth, licking a stray one from his lip.

Faramir gave a short laugh. "There hasn't been a deer or coney spotted within three days of Henneth Annun in years. What we didn't catch, the orcs and Southroners did. It's hard to imagine that in my grandfather's day Ithilien was teeming with game to the point that they had to send out parties to cull the deer so there'd be enough food for them over the winter." He continued speaking, describing the hardships and beauties of the Moonlands and how the company based at the Refuge lived from day to day. "I'll give you this much, if you ever leave the Rangers, you'll leave with a nice nest egg. There's absolutely nothing to spend your pay on out there," he said in conclusion.

Halmir grinned and impulsively said, "What would you spend your saved pay on when you eventually retire from the Rangers, sir?" He didn't react to the word "you"... not wanting to risk tempting fate if, indeed the Captain would be willing, one day, when Halmir had served his required time in a mounted unit, to accept him into the elite corps.

"Books," Faramir answered immediately, "and good beeswax candles to read them by. I have a few volumes I carry with my gear, but usually I'm too busy or too tired or my eyes ache too much from the rushlights to be able read much."

"What do you like to read, sir?" the young man asked, wanting to know more about the Steward's younger son. He forebore mentioning what his reading preferences were, having been teased unmercifully when he was younger by his sisters.

"Poetry, much to horror of my esteemed big brother." Faramir smiled crookedly. "He thinks that a soldier who reads anything besides reports of past battles and strategic essays is a few arrows short of a full quiver. He keeps trying to get me to take these unwieldy volumes about military history back to the refuge with me. As far as I'm concerned they're more fit for use as doorstops, and there aren't any doors in Henneth Annun. What do you like to read, Halmir?"

"I like poetry, too. My sisters tease me about it so I haven't mentioned it to anyone in ages." He looked out across the lush summer greens of the grain fields and orchards of the Pelennor, beyond the Rammas Echor. "As the greening of the spring, gift of Iluvatar after winter's despair/you make blossom hope where/hopelessness held sway./ And like the bud coming into flower/ you draw me as a bee to nectar." Halmir looked sidewise at Faramir, looking for his reaction to the bit of romantic poetry.

"Spoken well and with good discretion," Faramir said with a humourous glint in his eye then he sobered, "Is there a certain person you intend to share that bit of verse with?"

Halmir shook his head. "No, sir. Just wishful thinking. I know that it will be a long time before I'll have the luxury of courting anyone; but sometimes I find myself wondering what that will be like when it eventually happens--if it happens." He wasn't sure why he amended his statement but a prickle of gooseflesh ran over him and he shivered as if he'd unwittingly made a prescient statement.

Faramir looked at Halmir, his face more serious than it had been through most of their conversation. "I would prefer that any man under my command in Ithilien not be tied to a wife and children. As Boromir keeps repeating, war is coming and I do not want to give an order that will end with the creation of widows and orphans. Likewise, no firstborn son will ever be assigned to Henneth Annun so long as I have command there." He sighed and turned his head back towards the northeast. "Of course, the time may well come when we do not have the luxury to spare the married and the heirs of our people. But until that time..."

The breeze freshened and the tocsin rang for the change of the watch as Faramir stopped speaking.

Halmir nodded and began to respond to Faramir's last statement and then started as the bells rang out then he sheepishly settled back onto the tile roof. "I'm so used to being on the drill field for evening muster, I forgot we're excused until tomorrow morning."

"Excused from the muster or no, you need to eat a proper meal. One meatroll in a long day will not keep your hand steady on your bowstring. I speak from experience."

"Yes, sir." Halmir grinned and scrambled to his feet, collecting his bow from where it lay next to him. He took the necessary steps to cross the ridgeline of the roof but paused and turned to face Faramir. He drew himself to attention. "It was an honour to shoot with you today, sir... and more of an honour to speak with you this eve. Eru bless you, sir."

"Eru's blessings be upon you also, Cadet Formail," Faramir answered and watched Halmir out of sight. Then he turned back to watch the changing colours of the sunset as they fell on Ithilien. He definitely wanted this young man under his command and would have him if it meant he had to harass Boromir day and night between now and graduation. He waited until the sky began to grow dusky blue before he rose and made his own way off the roof.

TBC 


	11. Rites of Passage Part 4

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Authors' Note: Hankie warning for horse lovers and others in this chapter. We're very sorry but the muse was adamant and it about killed us to write the beginning of this chapter. However, things do improve by the end. We promise!

Through Daeron's Eyes - Rites of Passage, Part IV

By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle

Daeron entered the stable yard with a sigh of relief. It had taken nearly an hour to convince Gharal that he wasn't going to collapse or something. Finally, he told the would be healer that there were plenty of other people who could use his help over in the infirmary and to leave him be for Valar's sake!

He'd been wanting to check on Ruinanor since the day the final exams had begun but there hadn't been time during the past four days to do more than get through the tests. From the sounds coming from behind the stable, the farrier was out back at his forge so Daeron stopped in the feed room to grab a carrot for Ruinanor as an apology for his neglect.

He whistled as he made his way is down the central corridor of the barn but she didn't neigh back at him as was her usual wont. Concerned, he hastened his pace as much as the crutches would allow until he reached the stall next to the farrier's office. He stopped in shock, appalled at what he saw.

When he'd visited with her five evenings previously, she'd been in good spirits and glossy-coated and had even begun putting some weight on her injured leg. Now her coat stared, and her eye was dull with pain. She didn't even react to his presence. She shifted her weight uneasily and apparently hadn't touched the flake of hay or bucket of oats.

He began to open the latch of the stall when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Ah, lad... I was about to send for you."

"What happened? She was doing so well." He finally managed to get the latch open but the crutches were making it impossible to open the door. In disgust he tossed them aside, opened the door and limped into the box.

The farrier stepped into the stall and crouched down by Ruinanor's near-fore hoof and ran a gentle hand down the leg towards the hoof. "Laminitis."

Ruinanor jerked her leg away and tossed her head upwards, her eyes showing white at their edges. Daeron hastily grabbed for her halter, talking soothingly to her.

"I put special shoes on her, but..." The farrier shook his dark head and heaved himself to his feet, apologizing to the mare for causing her more discomfort.

Daeron bit his lip and squeezed his eyes closed. "She's not eating, isn't she?" He already knew what he answer would be but hoped that the farrier would tell him otherwise.

The older man shook his head. "And she is now refusing water."

Daeron shook his head and put his arms around the mare's neck, reaching under the black mane to scratch her favourite spot. "Can... I...I just want to spend some time with her..."

"Of course, lad. I'll be in the forge--when you need me."

Daeron couldn't answer, couldn't look at the man, in spite of the sympathy he heard in his voice."

The farrier patted the mare's neck and headed back to the forge, and shortly the sound of horseshoes being formed came clanging along the corridor.

"Oh, my pretty one. I'm so sorry, if I'd paid attention you wouldn't have gotten hurt..."

Ruinanor pressed her head against his shoulder for a bare moment and then let it drop again.

"Daeron?" Laedren called out from the entry of the stables. His boots rang on the stone floor as he walked along the row of stalls, and he murmured greetings to the various horses who whickered at him curiously. As he approached the Farrier's office, he saw a pair of crutches laying on the floor. "Daeron?"

Daeron heard his father's voice but didn't answer, instead he focused on a tangle in Ruinanor's mane and gently pulled it apart, carefully smoothing the hairs as he freed them. He kept on talking softly to the bay telling her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her and that none of the other horses in the stable were a patch on her. He knew what needed doing but dreaded doing it.

Laedren stopped at the open entrance to the horse box and sighed as he took in Ruinanor's appearance.

Daeron continued neatening Ruinanor's mane as he tried to find the courage to leave the box and summon the farrier. Finally, he laid the last few strands in place and stepped back, almost falling as he lost his balance.

It was only as he caught himself and turned towards the stall door that he realized his father was there.

"I'm sorry, my son." The Captain-General's adjutant wanted to take the young man into his arms to comfort him, but he had the feeling that the slightest touch would shatter his heir completely.

"It's not fair," Daeron said in a broken voice as he fumbled with the latch. "It's not fair!" His voice rose as he fell against the door and pounded the wood in sorrow and anger.

"No, it's not..." Laedren intercepted his son's fist before he broke a bone in his grieving rage. He pulled Daeron into his arms and supported him, unconsciously making the same sort of shushing sounds that he did when Finduilas was disconsolate.

Daeron collapsed against his father, sobbing. "It's my fault... she doesn't deserve this..."

"Ssshhhh... sssshhh... It's not your fault, Daeron. You saw her cared for even before you cared for yourself. Sometimes these things happen despite all we do." He stroked Daeron's dark hair soothingly.

Daeron didn't know how long he stayed in his father's comforting embrace, but eventually Laedren's words and tone of voice got through the violent emotions that were raging through him and he calmed somewhat. "She shouldn't have to suffer anymore," he said stiffly as he pushed himself away from the comforting shoulder.

The clanging from the forge had ceased, and the farrier's voice could be heard murmuring indistinctly as he gentled the horse the new shoe was for.

"I'd better get the farrier..." Daeron rubbed a hand across his face and started towards the doorway that led to the forge and yard beyond.

"Daeron, you've forgotten something." Laedren stooped and picked up the crutches.

Daeron cursed volubly as he caught the foot of his splinted leg against the threshold of the doorway and clutched at the frame.

Laedren shook his head as he caught up and handed him the crutches. "You sit down." He turned Daeron and urged him towards the bench that was set against the wall at the end of the corridor. "You make sure to clean your mouth before you next kiss your mother or baby sister," he added as he stepped out to fetch the farrier.

Daeron slumped as he dropped to the bench and tried to pull himself together. His injured leg was throbbing and his eyes burned. There had to have been something he could have done that would have prevented Ruinanor from being injured in the first place but he couldn't think of what it could be.

Laedren's soft voice counterpointed the less cultured tones of the farrier as they spoke beyond the forge's doorway.

The farrier preceded Laedren back into the stables, and he passed into his office, emerging a few moments later, with a bag in his hand. "Lad, I can do the necessary--" he began.

"No," Daeron said firmly, rising to his feet. "It's my responsibility."

The older man exchanged a glance with Laedren who nodded, then offered the bag to Daeron. "Here, ye are then, lad."

Daeron's eyes were bleak as he took the bag from the farrier.

"Four should do the job."

Daeron nodded and went back to the stall door. Laedren rested a hand on his son's shoulder giving wordless support until the cadet moved to get back to his beloved mare. He propped his crutches against the door and called the mare. "Ruinanor. Come here, girl." He gave the special whistle that meant he had a treat for her and held his breath as he waited to see if she'd respond.

At the sound of the whistle the bay mare actually raised her head and then slowly limped the few steps until she could rest her chin on the top of the stall door.

Daeron bit his limp at the obvious pain those few steps cost her and offered one of the sticky balls of molasses and barley to the mare. The whiskers on her muzzle tickled his palm as she snuffled then delicately ate the concoction. He offered her two more which she took with the same good manners and bit back a sob as she returned her nose to his palm looking for another. He pulled the fourth ball from the bag and fed it to her, murmuring how much he loved her and that he was so proud of her.

Laedren crossed his arms across his chest, his throat tight as he watched his son say farewell to the mare that had been gifted to him the Yule before he'd entered the academy.

Ruinanor swallowed the last of the doctored treats and laid her head on Daeron's shoulder for a moment before letting her head drop to the straw of the box. Within minutes she shuddered and went to her knees and then to her side. Within a few more she lay still and silent.

The bag hit the floor as Daeron broke down completely.

Laedren inhaled deeply and then hurried forward to catch his son up in his arms, turning him away from the stall.

"Come, Daeron," Laedren said softly, moving towards the entrance to the barn and the bright sunlight beyond. "You did well... she isn't suffering anymore. It's not an easy thing to do... I'm proud of you, my son...so proud and I do understand what you are feeling now."

Daeron couldn't answer. He couldn't even see where he was going because of the tears that wouldn't stop no matter what he did.

Laedren pushed back his own memories of the time he'd had to put down a beloved mount, and continued guiding Daeron through the barn's main door.

Boromir entered the stableyard, having been informed by one of the training sergeants that his adjutant had been seen heading that way. He needed to find Laedren so that they could attend a meeting that Denethor had announced during luncheon. It was to begin in a half an hour and given the Steward's uncertain temper after receiving some missives from the south, it would not do to be late.

He spied Laedren coming out of one of the barns. "Laedren, we need to get back up to the Citadel..."

Laedren looked up to see his Captain-General. "In just a moment, Ori." He turned his attention back to Daeron. He made a decision as he saw how badly his son was shaking. "Come along, Daeron. Let's get you to the infirmary."

Daeron didn't argue, but obeyed his father's direction.

Boromir frowned. "What happened?"

Daeron blinked trying to clear his vision as he recognized Lord Boromir's voice. He opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. He literally couldn't speak of it.

"Ruinanor developed laminitis in two of her feet. Daeron had to put her down." He gently squeezed his son's shoulders and looked sadly at Boromir, who had been present the last time Laedren had been in the same position.

Boromir said nothing but turned to walk on Daeron's other side, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. From experience, he knew that anything he might say would either sound trite or unfeeling at this point. In a few days, perhaps the young man would be able to accept commiseration and sympathy but not now.

Laedren noted that Daeron was taking no weight on his splinted leg now. "Daeron, your leg..."

"I think I hit it on the doorframe..." Daeron gritted his teeth against the pain and reminded himself that Ruinanor had felt far worse.

Boromir returned salutes as they crossed the academy grounds but his expression and posture made it clear that he and his companions were not to be stopped for any reason.

With the sixth sense that most healers seemed to have to recognized approaching patients, a familiar figure was standing in the doorway of the infirmary.

Laedren recognized Balath and sighed with relief. "Balath."

Balath took one look at Daeron's face and murmuring an "excuse me" to the officers, stepped up to the cadet and expertly scooped him off of his feet and, with Laedren and Boromir supporting Daeron's shoulders, carried the boy into the ward.

"What happened?" the healer asked as he began checking Daeron over.

Laedren glanced at Boromir. "Daeron knocked his bad leg against the door frame of the stables by accident." He would let Daeron tell the healer about Ruinanor if the youth wished, but for now, the damaged limb was excuse enough for the tear tracks on the cadet's face.

The healer's hands were gentle as he tucked pillows under the splinted leg but he frowned at the amount of swelling he felt.  
"Just knocking it against a door frame wouldn't have caused this much swelling this fast. Were you walking on it without the crutches?" he asked Daeron as he loosened the bindings on the splint.

Daeron nodded and the healer frowned and paused in his work. "What did I tell you? You're staying here for at least the next three days."

"The graduation ceremony is three days from now," Boromir reminded the healer.

"So it is, my lord. But Cadet Greyvale may be participating in it while maintaining a horizontal position, if he doesn't do as he's been instructed." The healer's tone was acerbic. "Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do."

Laedren bit back a grin--surely the acerbic manner was issued to healer's along with the long black robes and their aprons.

"Do as the healer says, Daeron," he admonished and bent over to press a kiss to his son's forehead. "I'm proud of you."

Daeron reached up and squeezed his father's arm. "Thank you, father."

Laedren stepped away reluctantly.

Boromir bid Daeron farewell and took Laedren's arm. "We have exactly ten minutes to be in the Council chamber, else you'll need to gift father with the entire next decades produce of your vineyard."

"Heavens forfend! I have in-laws to placate and need every bottle!"

Boromir gave a small smile at the retort and as soon as they were out of earshot of Daeron said, "After the meeting, we can talk about your son."

Laedren nodded and accompanied his Captain-General towards the gates of the Military Academy and towards the ramp to the Citadel.

hr

Daeron stared up at the ceiling of the ward. It was past lights out but after sleeping most of the afternoon and evening, now he couldn't keep his eyes closed. His mind kept replaying the events in the stable and it was only by sheer willpower that he didn't give way to tears.

The window at the end of the ward that faced the drill yard slowly opened with a faint creak, and the casement was pushed all the way back to rest against the stone outer wall of the infirmary. A darker shadowy figure, silhouetted by the bright moonlight behind it, slipped over the sill and paused a moment before stealthily making its way down the ward towards where a dim night light marked the location of the inner door. "Psst, Daeron."

Daeron jumped at the sound of his friend's voice. "Wha--" Halmir's hand covered his mouth, smothering his cry.

"Sssh... I brought your writing case. Here." Halmir lifted his fingers away from his friend's mouth and pushed the wooden box into Daeron's hands. "Balath kept you asleep all afternoon?"

"Yes," Daeron whispered, as his fingers ran over the smooth wood of the box. "I can't sleep now and I can't stop thinking about..." his voice trailed off and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the box more tightly.

Halmir had carefully settled on the edge of Daeron's bed and he now looked at his friend's face, able to see it fairly clearly in the moon light that streamed in through the open window. "Can't stop thinking about what? Graduation?" He patted Daeron's shoulder. "Balath will get you sorted out so you can be in the ceremony, Daer."

"It's not that," Daeron whispered. He paused, swallowed the lump that insisted on trying to climb into his throat and continued. "I had to put Ruinanor down." As soon as he words left his mouth, the tears he'd been fighting to keep inside spilled over.

"Oh, Daeron..." Halmir breathed. He leaned forward and drew Daeron into his arms hugging his best friend tightly. "I thought she was going to be all right."

"So did I but she developed laminitis..." Daeron quietly wept into his best friend's shoulder. The anger he felt earlier at the unfairness of it all transmuted into sorrow by Halmir's sympathy.

The light-haired young man said nothing, merely offering his presence and silent comfort, rubbing hid friend's back as he gently rocked back and forth.

Daeron had no idea how long he remained in Halmir's arms, but eventually his tears stopped and the wretched pain that had been overwhelming him diminished to a quiet sorrow. He knew it would be back, but for the moment things were bearable. "Thank you, Hal."

"How many times have you comforted me when I wanted to just howl out my grief over something?" He rummaged in his tunic pocket and pulled out a rumpled but clean handkerchief. "Here. Blow."

Daeron snickered, hearing Lady Penraen's voice in that of her son's, but took the handkerchief and made use of it.

"When you didn't come back to the barracks, we figured that Balath hijacked you because you were overusing your leg."

"He probably would have, except that my father and Lord Boromir brought me here after..." he took a deep breath. "I bashed my leg against the stable doorframe... and I wasn't exactly..." his voice trailed off again this time from embarrassment.

Halmir raised his hand. "I know that I'm not particularly attached to that pot of glue wearing horseshoes that I will be glad to pass onto another cadet next week, but if I had to--to give him release, I'd be upset too. Don't be ashamed of how you feel, Daer. You did it yourself? Not the farrier?"

"Yes, I did it. I had to. I was responsible for her getting hurt so badly so I just couldn't let someone else do it."

Halmir sighed. "Daeron, it wasn't your fault. None of us could have come through unscathed the way you were overrun. If it hadn't been Ruinanor that went down, it could have been Grethen's 'plow horse', or mine." He paused and then added, "I'm kind of glad that you were the one to give her release. You love her and she knew it. You let her go with affection and love and she knew it. I wonder," he added, "if horses go to Mandos."

"I don't know. I hope they do." Daeron answered. "If they do they must have the most wonderful pasture to run in." He thought about the idea and found comfort in it. "She'll have the best hay and all the apples and carrots she wants, and she'll be able to run again."

"And streams of sweet water, and sugarloaf!"

"Oh, yes, definitely sugarloaf." He suddenly thought of something that had happened during their first year at the academy. "Remember when she opened her stall door that time and went in to the mess hall? I think she ate about a month's ration of sugarloaf before anyone found her."

Halmir clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle his guffaw. He was out after curfew and with only a few days to go most certainly did not want to end up with more demerits to work off.

Daeron smiled a bit at the memory and sighed before laying his head back against his pillow. "Where did you go after the shoot? I looked for you before..."

"Um, I hid out," Halmir confessed. "It was--" He shuddered a bit remembering the hands thumping him between the shoulder blades and others pumping his right hand up and down and the shouted congratulations from so many people at the range. "It was too much. Daer, I'm the one always in trouble... not the one who comes out on top. I got scared and... " he trailed off.

Daeron turned his head and peered at Halmir's face in the dim light. "...and you pulled your 'you don't see me' trick, didn't you?"

Halmir grinned sheepishly and nodded. "I have a place I go to--where I oughtn't but no one else goes there. I spent the afternoon on the roof of the supply tower, looking out over the Pelennor." He took a deep breath. "And Captain Faramir found me there."

"What!"

"Shhhh! Balath will hear you. It turns out, when he was a cadet, he used to go up there to get away from everything, too." Halmir suddenly snickered. "He brought me a meat roll and shared his water bottle with me and we stayed up there talking until the sunset bells began to ring. He told me to get to the evening meal on time, and stayed up there when I left."

"So that's where you've been vanishing to all these times," Daeron said. "What did you talk about?" He sincerely hoped that Lord Faramir would take Halmir as a Ranger upon graduation. It was obvious that was where Halmir belonged instead of a cavalry regiment.

Halmir hesitated a moment and then began to tell Daeron about the Ranger asking him what he thought a Ranger's life was like. "I told him that it was dangerous, and cold, and full of privation but worth it because it's the front line."

"You really want this don't you?" he asked as Halmir paused. "So much that none of the discomforts and dangers matter."

"Oh, yes!" Even in a whisper, the fervency was clear. "I'm just a drawback for a cavalry unit. And infantry isn't much better. I know what I'm good at. Can't I serve Gondor best by doing that?"

"I can't see why not. I'll miss you when you go to Henneth Annun and I go where ever I end up." He grinned crookedly. "I know it won't be there. I'm nowhere near as good a bowman as a Ranger needs to be and frankly, I never could figure out how to walk silently on bracken and pine cones and dry leaves."

"That's the one thing I hate about graduation. We've all pulled together for the last four years... but now we're going to be separated; all of us."

"Well, we can always write letters"

"Well, you and I can, but Val? The only time he has a pen in hand is under a direct order!" Halmir snickered.

"There is that," Daeron allowed. "I suppose we'll find out where we're all going to end up once the graduation ceremony is over. But I'm not going to be going any where until my leg heals."

"Did Balath give you any idea about how long it's going to take?"

"Not really. He said I broke the bone again when I hit it in the barn. He's threatening to tie me down and not let me attend graduation."

Halmir caught his breath and then let it go. "Then you'd better do exactly as he says, Daer. Maybe if you do that, he'll relent."

"Maybe..."

Halmir stifled a yawn. "Sorry... it must get getting on to midnight."

They were interrupted by the appearance of Balath who carried a dosing cup in his hand. "Or maybe not, given that it is after lights out." Balath gave Halmir a measuring look. "You can stay with Daeron till this takes effect and then you'll return to your barracks, by way of the door this time." He handed Daeron the cup and watched as he choked it down.

Halmir nodded, not looking terribly repentant.

Daeron handed the cup back, making a face. "You must be mad at me, that stuff tastes awful."

"But it's very effective. As far as whether you attend graduation or not...we'll see." The healer returned to his office and left he two young men alone again.

"I'll talk with him, Daeron. He said 'we'll see' not 'no'."

Daeron could feel his eyelids growing heavy and nodded, "Thanks, Hal. For everything."

"That's what friends are for." He caught the writing case as it slipped from Daeron's hands when the drug took full effect, and set it on the bedside table.

Sleep claimed Daeron within minutes. He still carried sorrow with him into his dreams but it wasn't a soul crushing pain like it had been before. And this time the sorrow was accompanied by a hopeful glimpse of the Fields of Mandos where Ruinanor ran free, healthy and beautiful with a herd of hundreds of other horses.

Halmir stood up and looked at his friend for a few more minutes before silently walking to the ward's door. He flicked his fingertips at the night light and made the flame dance for a moment before heading up the corridor to the main entrance, and then he paused as he approached Balath's lamp lit office.

Balath looked up from the book he was perusing. "Asleep?"

"Yes. I didn't know about Ruinanor. Sir, if Daeron does everything he's supposed to, will you please let him participate in graduation? Even if it's just sitting in a chair near the formation?" Halmir rushed on, "Being hurt himself was bad enough but he was blaming himself for Ruinanor's fall, and if he can't be part of the ceremony..." He trailed off and sighed. "It's just that so much bad has happened to him, I want him to have something good."

Balath raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you call me 'sir', cousin?" He set the book aside. "I will consider allowing him to participate in the graduation ceremony, if he does everything he's told and stays off that leg until right before the ceremony." He then smiled at Halmir and reached over to muss the flyaway hair. "I do understand, and you are a good friend to him."

Halmir smiled at his cousin and impulsively gave him a quick hug.

"That's enough," Balath mock groaned as Halmir's muscular arms threatened to crack ribs. "Get back to your barracks. And congratulations on your triumph at the archery range this morning."

Halmir flushed. "I still can't believe that I outshot Rangers. Good night!" He grinned and slipped out of the office and into his reconnaissance mode to get back to the barracks without being caught out by the duty NCO.

Daeron sighed as he emerged from the tunnel that led up from the Sixth level. This was not the way he'd wanted to attend his own graduation.

Grethen heard the sigh and gave Daeron a sympathetic grin. "You doing all right?"

"Fine. I just wish..."

"If wishes were orcs, we'd all be in a lot of trouble," Gharal interrupted. "Don't worry about it, Daeron. The important thing is that we're graduating. The fact you're still on crutches doesn't change the fact that you made it through the academy."

Halmir, walking on Daeron's other side, nodded. "And at least they are letting you do the ceremony. I thought for a while that Balath wouldn't let you do that."

"He almost didn't," Daeron admitted. "In fact, he said that he wasn't going to let me, then an hour later came in and said that I could. I don't know why he changed his mind."

Grethen grinned. "Let's not ask in case he changes it again."

Val scratched at the reddened scar on his forehead as they turned towards the point of the keel.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Daeron said. "Quit scratching at that, Val."

"It will just make it itch worse," Gharal added, taking a firmer grip on the seniors' guidon as the freshening breeze tugged at the standard.

"Yes, mother." Val rolled his eyes and snuck in a final scratch before looking at the assembly area for their formation. "What--? Chairs?" he blurted out, puzzled.

"No wonder Balath didn't have a problem with you being at the ceremony," Grethen said. "It makes sense. You're not the only graduate still recovering from the practicals."

Lt Bedreth's voice carried across the grassy sward. "Hurry up gentlemen, the guests will begin to arrive in fifteen minutes and I want all of you in place."

Daeron found most of his fellow graduates passing him in response to the order and sighed again as he hobbled across the grass. Having to use the crutches was better than not being able to attend the ceremony or having to be carried to his place, but they weren't really meant to be used on anything save stone floors and smooth pavement.

Halmir stayed at Daeron's side, ready with a steadying hand. "They can't get started without us... don't kill yourself," he whispered.

When they reached the chairs Daeron was intercepted by Lieutenant Bedreth and steered towards the chair on the left end of the front row of those set up for the graduates.

Halmir did a quick count of the chairs and silently sighed for the absent cadets... knowing intellectually that some people didn't make it through was different than actually seeing the reduced numbers in the flesh. A tremor took him as he thought of how close he'd come to being one of the missing graduates. Before he took his seat, he leaned over and whispered to Daeron, "Thanks, Daer."

Daeron sighed again. It seemed like all he was doing this morning was sighing. The day certainly wasn't turning out the way he thought it would. "Huh?" he turned and looked at his friend in confusion. "What for?"

The lanky cadet grinned. "For getting me through to this point. You got me through a lot of rough patches, best friend." He squeezed Daeron's shoulder and edged his way to the chair that took his regular place in standing formation, one row back and two spaces in.

"You're welcome. I wasn't going to leave you behind," Daeron whispered back and then turned to face forward as Lieutenant Bedreth spoke.

"Gentlemen, your attention please."

The graduates came to attention in their seats and the lieutenant explained the order of events. "Lastly, when your name is called, step forward to the presenting party, salute, and accept your commission and orders. Then return to your place. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the graduates replied in unison.

Lieutenant Bedreth nodded, and then catching sight of the first of the guests, turned and headed for the dais set up opposite the graduates' seats. He paused a moment and turned to Daeron, "You will remain seated when the call to attention is made, Cadet Greyvale." He waited for Daeron's acknowledgement before resuming his path to the dais.

"Yes, sir." Daeron flushed with embarrassment. This most definitely wasn't the way he'd thought this day would go.

Gharal felt a bit out of place. The guidon had been placed in a bracket that had been set in the grass and he'd been directed to sit where Daeron's usual spot was in the formation's front row.

Shortly after the last of the guests arrived and had taken their places behind and to the sides of the graduates, trumpets rang out from the Citadel and the graduates were called to attention.

Halmir saw Val's shoulders twitch slightly as soon as they were standing and he knew that the scar on Val's forehead had begun to itch again.

The presenting party made it's way from the Tower of Ecthelion, across the Court of the Tree and then past the guests and graduates to the dais. Daeron swallowed as he realized that not only was Lord Boromir as the Captain-General in the party along with his brother Captain Lord Faramir, but Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was there...and so was Lord Denethor, the Steward himself! The Steward hadn't attended an academy graduation in all the years that Daeron was at the academy and if he remembered correctly, not even for some years before that. It was such a surprise that the murmur and reaction of the guests were readily audible.

The ceremony began and one by one the cadets were called forward. After a good number of the cadets had received their commissions Lieutenant Bedreth called out, "Cadet Gharal Carnilin, front and center."

Gharal stood, took a deep breath and made his way to the front of the dais. He was afraid that his trembling would be obviously visible as he stopped in front of the Commandant and Lord Boromir.

"Cadet Carnilin, reporting as ordered, sir," he said in the prescribed manner, saluting smartly.

The Commandant returned the salute and waited while Gharal drew his sword and held it hilts up before him. Then Lieutenant Bedreth read out the commissioning oath, which Gharal repeated.

The Captain-General looked resplendent in full dress, and his eyes were full of pride as he stepped forward, spurs in hand. As he had for the cadets that had already been called forth, he gracefully knelt and affixed the gleaming spurs to Gharal's boots.

Gharal had been told that the Captain-General would be doing this but the reality was more than he had imagined. He swallowed hard as the spurs were buckled to his heels.

Boromir smoothly stood again and smiled at the newest commissioned officer.

Gharal saluted his Captain-General and found that his eyes were full of tears. His brothers and cousins had tried to explain what this moment was like and now he understood why they'd stumbled over their words and had finally just shrugged, telling him that he'd find out for himself.

Boromir returned the salute then shook Gharal's hand. "Well done!"

"Thank you, my lord."

Gharal didn't remember how he got back to his chair. His brothers and cousins were right, there were no words to describe this.

Halmir swallowed hard as he heard his name called. From the corner of his eye he could see his parents and older siblings all beaming proudly at him, and finally, the last of the internal disquiet that he'd been carrying within him trickled away. He hadn't shamed them, despite the bad times when it seemed that every decision he made was going to have him thrown out of the Academy.

He marched up to the Commandant and saluted for the last time as a cadet. "Cadet Halmir Formail reporting as ordered, sir!"

The ceremony continued onwards in the same manner as Gharal's commissioning until it came time for the presentation of the spurs.

Halmir's eyes flickered up to meet Lord Boromir's gaze.

The Captain-General held a pair of spurs in his hand but made no move to kneel. Instead he grinned at Halmir and passed the spurs to Faramir who had stepped forward from his place beside the Steward. "I think that it would be more appropriate for you receive your spurs from your commanding officer, Lieutenant Formail."

It was only the long practice of keeping a straight face when the drill sergeant was yelling at him in formation that kept Halmir's jaw from dropping in surprise. Even his breath was frozen as the confirmation of his dream echoed in his ears.

Faramir smiled as he took the spurs from his brother and knelt to do the honors. In the meantime Boromir noted the newly commissioned Lieutenant was turning somewhat blue. "Breathe, Lieutenant."

The gasp Halmir gave was loud enough to be heard down in the First Circle, he thought, and the bluish tinge was rapidly replaced by a pink flush. As soon as Faramir straightened, Halmir saluted him, knowing that he was trembling with joy and that the Captain could see it.

Faramir returned the salute. "I'll see you at Henneth Annun, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" The last was said in a fervent tone that carried a far deeper meaning than simple manners. Halmir returned to his seat while Faramir returned to his place next to the Steward as the ceremony continued then Val's name was called. He watched as Val made his way forward, feeling dazed and trying to take it in.

Once Val returned to his seat six other cadets were called forward to be commissioned and Daeron fully expected that his name would be called next. He was positive that Grethen had gotten the top place in their class so when Lieutenant Bedreth called out Grethen's name, he was stunned.

That surprise grabbed even Halmir's attention as everyone in the class had been positive that Grethen would be the Honour Graduate this year. He watched his oversized friend come to attention before the Commandant and then cast a quick glance at Daeron, able to see at least part of his face.

Daeron's face was white with shock, and he was only peripherally aware of Grethen repeating the oath and Lord Boromir's laugh as he rose to his feet after affixing the spurs to Grethen's heels.

He took refuge in military protocol, keeping his eyes forward and mentally repeating the order of the commissioning ceremony in his mind until Lieutenant Bedreth stepped forward once more and called his name.

All was silent save for the sound of the guidon's snapping in the breeze as he hobbled across the sward to the dais, stopping and pulling himself to attention as best he could given the awkwardness of the crutches.

Boromir smiled at Daeron, seeing the dilemma of having to have a hand free to salute and draw his sword. The Captain-General reached out and took the right crutch from the young Lord Greyvale, as if it had been rehearsed, and stepped back to allow the Commandant to administer the oath.

Daeron hoped his eyes communicated his gratitude towards his Captain-General and he saluted the Academy Commandant.

"Stop."

The command made everyone freeze. The Steward who had looked on as the ceremony progressed, now stepped forward. "I know that you are proud to acclaim the Honour Graduate, Captain Osril, but I choose to pull rank this day."

Denethor turned his grey eyes to Daeron, and although he didn't actually smile, there was a distinct hint of pleasure in his voice as he continued, "To have the privilege of taking the oath of this young man--again." The last word was a whisper that only the four at the focus of everyone's attention could hear.

Boromir raised an eyebrow at this and couldn't help glancing towards where Daeron's father and his own adjutant, Lord Laedren Greyvale, stood with his lady wife and infant daughter. Laedren's expression of pride was beyond description.

Daeron drew himself as straight as he could and carefully drew the sword which he had received from the hand of the Steward less than two years previously, carefully allowing the tip to just touch the ground as he held it just below the hilts with his free hand. No longer pale, his face was flushed with pleasure and surprise.

Denethor looked out over the assembly, and spoke again, his voice clear and strong, easily heard by all. "To be an officer of Gondor is to live daily the true meaning of loyalty. For each man who bears the spurs and holds the honour code in his heart, Gondor comes first, last and always, through fire, famine, and flood, through pain and joy and even death. They give up much to preserve the land for the rest of us, their time, their strength, their health. But they do not give up their integrity, nor their honour. The Honour Graduate for this year, Lord Daeron Greyvale, even as a cadet, has demonstrated all of these traits. He has put himself between my heir and an assassin's blade. He has suffered injury, and even indignity and scorn to keep his given word. He has led the junior cadets for whom he was responsible and trained them with care and taught them the meaning of courage, honour, integrity and commitment."

Denethor looked at Daeron and smiled. "I take his oath here before you all, but it is a mere formality. Daeron Greyvale was an Officer of Gondor long before this day. The spurs he will receive are mere tokens of the service he has already performed, and a harbinger of that which he will provide in the future... for Gondor!"

He then reached out and took the hilt of the sword. "I am honoured, Lieutenant Greyvale. Let us make this official."

The Steward recited the words of the commissioning oath word perfectly, the smile slipping into a solemn expression as he did so, breaking at the end of each phrase for Daeron to repeat it.

Daeron took a deep breath and repeated the words of the oath in a clear and ringing voice, his eyes locked onto the Steward's.

"I, having met all requirements for appointment as a Lieutenant in the Army of Gondor do solemnly swear fealty and service to Gondor and the Lord and Steward of the Realm and that I will support and defend her against all enemies, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Daeron Greyvale son of Laedren, before the Valar and all here present."

Daeron felt as though he had grown another three inches taller once he completed the oath.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Greyvale." Denethor turned towards Boromir and took the crutch from him and handed it back to Daeron once the sword was safely sheathed.

"Thank you, my Lord." Strangely, Daeron found that his voice didn't tremble at all.

"One's offspring may do the honours of putting on your spurs."

Denethor then added in a whisper, "If I do not let him, he will sulk all throughout the feast this night. Quite tediously."

The Commandant's jaw tightened as he made himself keep a straight face.

The spurs that Boromir held in his hand were works of art; made of mithril finely engraved and enameled in sable and white with the emblem of the white tree. The leather straps were carefully carved and decorated with the white tree and laid with mithril leaf. Daeron could recognize the hand of his friend and teacher Jorrell in the work.

Daeron managed to keep his face composed though his eyes showed the humour that he dared not express on such an august occasion.

Boromir gave his father a sidewise look, then glanced at Daeron commiseratingly for a moment before kneeling and affixing the spurs to his heels. When the Captain-General rose to his feet, Daeron realized once more that he was looking him in the eye. When had he grown the extra inches? Surely, it was only a few months ago that he looked up into Lord Boromir's face?

"Congratulations, Lieutenant,"

Daeron saluted Boromir and held it until it was returned.

Then applause and cheers erupted, and, behind Daeron, at a signal from Lieutenant Bedreth, the graduating class was on their feet at attention.

The Commandant stepped forward with the commissioning certificate and the sealed papers bearing Daeron's initial orders. Then, realizing that the Lieutenant did not have a hand free to take the documents, his expression became nonplussed.

Denethor smiled at Daeron, took the papers from the Commandant's hand, immediately passing them to Boromir who stifled a snort of amusement. "I'm certain that you are as curious as the rest of your classmates as to your first posting, Lieutenant. Once you have finished healing, " he cast a glance at the splinted leg, "You will join my personal household guard for six months."

Daeron couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips at hearing those words. He had never heard of a newly commissioned officer ever being assigned directly to the Steward's Guard before. "Thank you, my lord."

Denethor nodded. "You are most welcome, my boy, in all senses of the word." He looked at the Commandant. "Go ahead and release the graduates so their families can congratulate them, Captain Osril."

The Commandant bowed his head in assent and called out, "Dismissed!"

Boromir put a hand on Daeron's arm preventing him form going anywhere. "Stay, I see your parents coming now."

Laedren looked proud enough to burst and Meriel promptly handed a drowsy Finduilas into Boromir's arms and turned to embrace her son, much to Denethor's amusement.

The baby opened her eyes a bit, blinked to focus, seemed to recognize that she was in safe hands and resumed her doze with a contented sigh, paying no attention to the papers that her temporary custodian still held in his one hand.

Meriel released her son with a kiss then stepped back to allow her husband to congratulate Daeron, but she didn't retrieve Finduilas from Boromir.

Laedren looked as resplendent as Boromir in his dress uniform and his gaze was proud as he looked at his son. Daeron drew himself to attention again and saluted his father, a sight which brought a lump to Laedren's throat as he returned the salute and then stepped forward to enfold Daeron in an embrace. "I have never been more proud of you, my son."

Glancing over Daeron's shoulder, Laedren spotted Master Sergeant Arnagond and a number of other soldiers who had befriended Daeron during his stay in the Houses of Healing. The grizzled sergeant wore his own dress uniform and a broad grin. "There's someone here to congratulate you." He turned Daeron round and stepped back, taking his lady's arm.

Daeron saw Arnagond's salute and returned it, then reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a mithril coin and placed it in the enlisted man's hand.

The sergeant grinned at him. "I've been waiting a long time to do that, sir." He glanced back at the other's standing behind him. "I had to, er--impress--my brethren here with my right to give you your first salute."

Daeron laughed and moving his right crutch to join its fellow under his left arm before it fell, placed his right hand on Arnagond's shoulder. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, Arnagond. Thank you. What did you do, threaten to brain them all with your wooden leg?"

"Som'at near that, lad. Som'at near that," The grizzled Sergeant laughed. "Looks like your friends want you." He then sobered and drew himself up straight after looking again at the coin in his hand. "This one's going on the mantelpiece. Thank you for the honour, sir." He saluted again, pride in his eyes.

Daeron returned the salute, and nodded at the sergeant before he was suddenly lifted up off the ground.

Boromir laughed at Daeron's surprised expression as his classmates bore him off and handed Finduilas back to her mother. "That brings back memories, doesn't it, 'Dren?"

"Aye." He smiled bemusedly at his son then he glanced over his shoulder at the Steward. "What did your father say that had Daeron looking so stunned there at the end?"

"Hopefully, they won't drop him," Boromir added slyly.  
"They'd better not, or I'm sure Daeron will get revenge on them the way I got revenge on you," 'Dren told Boromir genially.

Meriel accepted her daughter back and looked between her husband and the Steward's Heir. "What? Do I want to know the rest of this story?" She asked.

"No!" Laedren and Boromir answered in chorus.

Finduilas' eyes opened wide at the outburst and she complained about being disturbed.

Meriel soothed her daughter then looked at Boromir and smiled sweetly. "I can always ask your father, Ori."

"Ask me, what my dear?"

Laedren turned to bow to the Steward. "Lord Boromir reminded me of our graduation, that's all. My lord, what was it that you said to Daeron that had him looking so stunned?"

"I merely informed him of what his first duty assignment is." Denethor answered, taking Finduilas from Meriel and gently rocking her in his arms.

Laedren waited expectantly, knowing from experience that the answer would be forthcoming in Denethor's good time.

The Steward smiled down at the infant then looked up at Laedren. "He was rather surprised to find out that he was going to be spending the next sixth months after his leg heals assigned to my household guard."

Laedren caught his breath and pride bloomed in him once again as he turned his head to follow Daeron's progress about the keel's lawn, still held securely on his fellow's shoulders.

Meriel looked surprised and then smiled up at her Godfather. She laid her hand on his arm and leaned up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.

Finduilas gave a small sigh and finally fell fully asleep in the Steward's arms, snuggled up against the furred lapels of his robe, her small fingers curled into the sleek dark fur as if she were holding a stuffed toy.

"Come, my dear. What will people think?" Denethor mock-chastised Meriel, his eyes lit with humour. "Besides, your son still owes me a number of those puzzle-cases of his. I'll never get them if I let my son assign him to the middle of nowhere."

Laedren chuckled.

Boromir snorted. "Osgiliath is the middle of the Anduin, not the middle of nowhere."

hr

Daeron finally convinced his classmates to put him down and found himself near where Halmir was apparently trapped by his numerous sisters and other relatives. The soon-to-be Ranger looked slightly desperate as he met Daeron's eyes.

"There you are Halmir. Excuse us, please. My father wants to talk to you." Daeron grabbed Halmir's arm and drew him away from the mob.

The look of desperation changed to one of thanks, but at the disappointed responses of the young ladies, Halmir rashly promised, "I'll be back to introduce you to some of my class mates," as he pushed his way to Daeron's side.

Daeron gave Halmir a look that spoke volumes. "What did you tell them that for?" he whispered as he started making his way back towards the dais and his family.

"It was an escape device. Don't worry, I'll introduce them to Lorimer and Rolin. They still owe me for a wager they lost."

"I'm not going to ask." Daeron paused to catch his breath. "Father didn't specifically ask to see you, but I know he wants to congratulate you."

Halmir beamed. "I'm going to Henneth Annun, Daer! It's really going to happen!"

"That's wonderful! I knew you could do it."

"I didn't see them hand you your orders? Do you know where you're going yet?"

"I'm staying here in Minas Tirith. I've been assigned to the Steward's personal household guard for six months." Daeron still was stunned. Even telling Halmir didn't make it seem real.

Halmir stopped dead in his tracks, astonished, letting Daeron hobble on two steps without him, before Halmir collected himself and caught up. "The Steward's personal guard? There's never, ever been a graduate assigned there first thing."

"I know."

Before Halmir could say anything else they had reached the dais and he snapped to attention, saluting the senior officers and the Steward, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him despite his astonishment of seeing Daeron's infant sister cradled in Denethor's arms.

"Congratulations, Halmir," Laedren said. "Should I guess where your assignment is?" His eyes were twinkling as they'd been the morning that Faramir had barged into Boromir's office all but demanding that Halmir be assigned to Henneth Annun.

Halmir's bright grin rivaled the mithril tracery on the chest plate of his dress armour. "I am to go to Ithilien, sir. I'm to be a Ranger."

"Does your mother have anything to say about that?" Meriel asked him teasingly.

Halmir ducked his head and blushed. "Mother just said that at least now I won't be eating her out of house and home." He laughed and everyone within earshot joined in.

"Does that mean that I should ask the quartermaster to increase the supplies to Henneth Annun?" Faramir had excused himself from the conversation he'd been involved in and moved to lean against his older brother's shoulder.

Behind him, Damrod came to a position of ease, but the military amongst them could recognize the tension of one who was watching for danger even in so civilized a place as the Citadel.

Daeron noticed the arrival of Faramir's sergeant and reached over to tap Halmir on the shoulder. "Hal, do you still have your coin?"

"Er, yes... my sisters didn't give me a chance--"

Faramir grinned and nudged Damrod. "This sounds like a job for you, Dee. We don't need any cavalry yard grunt getting a Ranger's coin now, do we?"

The Ranger from Lebennin smiled, his eyes dancing beneath his fringe. "No, sir." He drew himself to attention facing Halmir and brought his hand up in a salute and held it. "Congratulations, sir."

Halmir had to work hard to keep from grinning inappropriately, but he managed to match Dee's now respectful expression as he returned the salute, his other hand fishing out the coin he'd tucked into his belt pouch for this purpose.

"Thank you, Sergeant Damrod."

Damrod accepted the coin solemnly and tucked it into his belt pouch. "You're most welcome, sir."

Halmir got an odd expression on his face at Dee's calling him 'sir'. For four years he'd been addressed as 'cadet' or 'lad'. But now, in the blink of an eye and the taking of an oath, he was an officer, in a position of responsibility that their practices over the years at the Academy still couldn't quite replicate. It was sobering and exciting and terrifying all at once.

A patter of feet along the walkway that led to the fountain of the White Tree and thence to the tower that loomed over the citadel caught everyone's attention. A youth clad in the livery of the steward's household came to a halt and bowed deeply to Denethor and held out a folded piece of parchment. The child was breathless from haste. 

Denethor accepted the parchment and flipped it open with his free hand. "Return to Lord Maelwen and inform him that I shall be with him and the rest of the Council presently."

The page nodded, bowed, and returned the way he came.

Boromir grimaced at the name of the deputy chancellor. 

"Gentlemen, our presence is required in the council chamber, the Steward said dryly. "It appears that some crisis has occurred that only we are capable of handling."

"Given Maelwen's incompetence, I'm not surprised," grumbled Boromir.

Faramir laughed. Being only a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers he wasn't required to attend the Council meeting but Boromir, as the Captain-General of the Army did. "Better you than me, brother. If I had to deal with that windbag every day, he'd soon resemble a pin-cushion."

Laedren gave the Steward's second son a look that was as jaundiced as the one Boromir was favouring his brother with. "No need to rub it in, Captain."

Boromir suddenly grinned. "That's right, little brother. You don't have to attend the Council so that leaves you available to personally congratulate each and every graduate and their families. Given the size of this year's class that should only take you until dinnertime."

Faramir's eyes widened. "Ah, Boromir, perhaps I should sit in on this meeting..."

"No, thank you, little brother. I'll make sure I mention the upcoming need for more supplies for Henneth Annun. I'm certain father will remind me should it slip my mind."

Denethor chuckled at the byplay and then looked down at Finduilas. "Lady Meriel, will you accompany me to the tower? I would like to indulge myself with this little one as long as possible before duty becomes unavoidable."

"Most certainly, my lord." Meriel answered.

It was a bribe, an overt bribe, but Faramir sighed and gave in. "You owe me more than that, brother. I'll be thinking of appropriate payment for the balance due."

Boromir laughed and clapped his brother on the shoulder. "See you at dinner."

Halmir glanced at Daeron, bemused by the byplay, then went to attention as Denethor placed Meriel's hand on his arm. Daeron likewise snapped to attention, though he was hard put to keep a straight face.

"I will see you gentlemen at the feast in the Merethrond this evening, along with your fellow graduates," Denethor acknowledged them and then turned towards the fountain, adjusting his pace to Lady Meriel's shorter steps.

Boromir and Laedren followed, their attention turned to supply requests and other matters.

Faramir watched his brother and father out of sight, an expression promising, if not mayhem, at least something interesting, on his face. "Come, Damrod. Duty calls." Faramir caught the eye of one of the dour matrons whose grandson had graduated and, stifling a sigh, headed off in her direction after acknowledging the new Lieutenants' parting salutes.

Daeron waited until the Steward's party had entered the Tower and relaxed, leaning heavily on his crutches. He noticed that Halmir still looked bemused. "What is it, Hal?"

"When Sergeant Damrod called me 'sir'... it just... sort hit me hard. Especially since not that long ago I thought I wasn't going to be able to graduate."

Daeron considered Halmir's words for a moment or two. "I can understand that." He shifted on his crutches. "My leg is aching. Lets find a place to sit down...away from your sisters."

Halmir laughed. "Definitely away from my sisters--and their friends. I don't know why they're bothering with me. I'm the youngest son, and even though we're commissioned, it's not like we get paid enough to start a household of our own."

Daeron had started to hobble away from the dais towards where he could see Grethen, Val and Gharal standing near the abandoned chairs where they'd sat during the ceremony. He stopped and blinked in surprise. "You know, I completely forgot that starting today we actually get paid!"

Halmir laughed out loud. "Come on, Lieutenant, we have three other Lieutenants who have news to share with us."

TBC 


	12. Conversations and Farewells

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Conversations and Farewells/b

By Dancingkatz & Rhyselle

Summer T.A. 3016

Halmir took the tray with the chilled watered wine from Bendrel and ducked through the door that the grinning butler held open for him. The newly made Ranger stepped into the back garden and expertly imitated the quiet, slightly shuffling pace of the servant's walk as he made his way to where Daeron had been settled in the sun-dappled shade of one of Lady Meriel's beloved flowering trees.

Daeron set his daybook aside, having finally caught up with the events of the past two weeks. Now he understood exactly why it was better to make his entries at the end of each day. Trying to sort out what happened when after such a long time was frustrating.

"It doesn't help that every time I turn around someone was pouring a sleeping draught or something else down my throat," he grumbled as he rearranged the position of his splinted leg on the chaise. He was home on convalescent leave until the healers (both Balath and Adoan) determined his leg was completely healed. Daeron couldn't help grinning at the way Balath and Adoan had bristled at each other in professional rivalry until he'd politely asked if they really needed him to be present. He'd been saying farewell to most of his friends from the Academy over the past few days. Val and Grethen had left yesterday for Cair Andros. Gharal had taken ship from Harlond for Pelargir two days before that.

He heard footsteps on the flagstones of the small courtyard and remembering that Bendrel had promised to bring him something to drink, he moved his leather working kit from the small table that stood next to his chaise. "You can put it there, Bendrel. Thanks."

"Or would you be cooler if I just dumped it on your head?" teased Halmir in his own voice right before he came around to the side of the chaise.

"Halmir!" Daeron just about jumped out of his skin. "Don't do that!"

His friend chuckled as he set down the tray with the moisture beaded pitcher and two cups on the table. "I got you good, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You're enough to give an elf grey hair." Daeron then noticed that his best friend was in uniform; in particular, the russet and green uniform of an Ithilien Ranger. He sighed. He knew that Halmir was going to be leaving for his first assignment but this made it real.

Halmir dropped easily into a cross-legged position on the flagstones so that he could both look into Daeron's face and reach the refreshments. He grinned as he poured out a drink for Daeron, and then for himself.

"Bored out of your mind yet"  
"You could say that," Daeron answered as he accepted the cup. "I didn't realize how used I was to having something to do just about every hour of the day. And I'm still waking up an hour before dawn, even without reveille!"

"How much longer are you stuck here? Everyone was so jealous of your posting, you know. Well, not Greth, Val, Gharal or me... but everyone else."

"I don't know yet. Adoan and Balath were too busy butting heads that neither of them bothered to tell me the last time they looked over my leg. Another few weeks at the least I'd guess." The comment about others being jealous worried him. "Hal, do they think my father 'bought' the assignment for me?"

Halmir shook his head. "No... or rather, only one or two-you know those idiots who think that all of us used our families' influence to get our postings just because they didn't get cushy jobs. You can believe that I've disabused them of that notion." He cracked his knuckles and added, "And, no, the marks don't show."

Daeron snorted. "I suppose they accidentally met up with a doorframe while on their way home from the tavern or the like?"

"Well, let's just say when they left the city for their postings in the mountains of Lebennin, they weren't sitting too comfortably on their mounts. And it's a long hard ride to the mountain forts." Halmir grinned evilly. "And of course they won't say a word... too embarrassing... for them."

"You didn't!" Daeron stared at Halmir in shock and then guffawed loud enough to rival Lord Boromir. "You did. You're right, they won't dare say a word!"

Halmir shook his head. "Well, Gharal helped me out, and it was Grethen who pinned them down for their, um--chastisement. Val stood lookout." He looked smug and laughed along with Daeron. "I'm sure it's a memory neither of them will forget, but actually, everyone else just wishes you well. I reminded them that it's not going to be a sinecure... you'll have to be on your best behavior every minute, after all!"

"Don't remind me," Daeron snickered again then he sobered. "You wouldn't be here in uniform just to visit. You're heading out aren't you?"

Halmir nodded. "I have to report for final muster in two hours. Captain Lord Faramir wants us to travel under the cover of darkness, so I'm guessing we'll slip out right as the gate closes."

Daeron looked at Halmir in silence for a time, memorizing the young man's mobile face. "You better take care of yourself out there, you know."

The young Ranger sobered and nodded. "I will be careful, Daeron. I won't lie and say I'm not looking forward to it, but-" He suddenly grabbed Daeron's right hand and wrist in a warrior's grip. "I only wish that there were some way for us to stay together. This is a dream come true for me, but it's going to be the first time you aren't going to be there when I come back from a patrol to badger me about the risks I took."

"I'm sure that there will be someone to take over that job," Daeron said, "and I wish them joy in it." He grinned thinking about some of the more reckless actions of his best friend over the past 18 years. "You know, it's a miracle we survived this long, what with all your 'great ideas.'"

Halmir snickered, "Well some of them were your ideas too, you know." He looked around the beautiful garden and sighed. "When I'm curled up in a soggy crevice, waiting to attack invading Southrons, I'm going to remember this."

"And I'll remember it when I'm stuck at attention for hours in that ceremonial armor in the throne room or council chamber."

Halmir let go of Daeron's arm and reached out and plucked a blue strawflower that nodded at the edge of the nearest flower bed, and as he laid it on his thigh, he noticed the bits of leather that were scattered around the chaise on the ground. "What are you working on?"

Daeron opened out the suede roll that held his tools and picked up a russet-coloured puzzle case. "I'm glad I got this done this morning. Here, a good luck gift to take with you."

The case was somewhat smaller than ones he'd made for the Steward and his sons but just as carefully crafted. the "top" of the case was carved with the sigil of the Ithilien Rangers. Halmir's expression shifted into the endearing, wide-eyed, half-sheepish grin that he displayed any time he got an unexpected gift. He took the case into his hand almost reverently, examining it closely before looking back up to his best friend, a sheen of tears in his eyes. "You didn't have to do this for me, Daer."

"Of course I didn't have to. I wanted to. Now do you want to know the secret to it or not?"

Halmir grinned wider and nodded, handing it back to Daeron.

It took Halmir about a quarter of an hour to be able to successfully open the case with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back. Daeron was pleased with the way this particular case had turned out. "Let me show you one more thing." He took the opened case from Halmir and manipulated the actual 'lid.' "I put a second compartment in this one. It should be big enough for a piece of message scrip to fit inside." "That's amazing!"

Halmir made Daeron show him the trick of the second compartment. "Does anyone else know how to open the lid part?"

"No, only you and I." Daeron looked serious as he picked up another piece of leather from the tool roll. "I only just figured out how to make it work. So you have the first one."

"I'm honored." Halmir said the words with utter seriousness. "I wish I had something for you to take to your new assignment. I promise I won't lose this-ever." He opened the main compartment and tucked the strawflower blossom inside and closed it before tucking the case into his belt pouch.

"You've given me a lot of things already, Halmir. But if I start listing them all you'll be late for muster."

Halmir's ears reddened and he reached for the rest of his watered wine. "I know that messengers back and forth into Ithilien are few and far between, but I'll write to you as often as I can. I've even got a new daybook to fill up."

"I hope you remembered to pack your pens and ink as well." Daeron said laughing as he handed Halmir the strip of leather he'd just picked up.

"What's this?"

Daeron grinned, "It's for keeping your hair tied back when you have to use your spare bowstring to off Southrons."

The ranger chortled and immediately put the strip to use. With his hair drawn back from his face, he looked suddenly older, more mature than when the sun-kissed locks danced around his cheekbones. "You be careful too. I know you've already proven that you're willing to put yourself between a blade and Lord Boromir, but try not to have to put it into practice again for the Steward, all right?"

Two sets of footsteps approached from the street gate and through the arbor that overarched the pathway along the side of the house. Daeron looked up and found that his father and Lord Boromir had arrived.

Halmir scrambled to his feet and bowed to the Captain-General and Lord Laedren.

"I owe you for this Laedren," the Steward's eldest son was saying as they emerged from beneath the arbor into the sunlit courtyard. "Right, that makes an even dozen bottles of the dark red from your vineyards in Dol Amroth you owe me. Ori, you're going to have to get married one of these days." "Not to any of the Lord of Lebennin's horse-faced daughters. There's no way I could stand to eat luncheon at the Citadel today, I'd be constantly looking for nosebags." Halmir stifled a snicker and presented a straight face as he rose from his bow while Daeron managed not to laugh aloud but couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. Ever since he could remember, Lord Boromir had been avoiding matchmaking parents by claiming that he and his adjutant had important matters concerning the security of Gondor to discuss. The discussions, if there actually were any, would usually end up occurring over food and drink in Laedren's study.

"Then why don't you pre-empt your father and look for a lady that you can tolerate? You've got friends in Rohan who have marriageable daughters," Laedren suggested as he stepped into the courtyard.

"The only lady I can tolerate is already taken. And you know that I don't poach!"

Laedren chuckled and thumped Boromir on the arm, then looked up and saw Daeron and Halmir. "Ah, taking advantage of the day?"

"Yes, sir. It's far too nice to be indoors," Daeron said. "Did you have a good morning?"

His father chuckled again, "I did, but I don't think our good Captain General did after finding out that Lebennin's daughters had been invited to lunch!"

Daeron grinned at the Captain-General. "You have my sympathies, my Lord."

"Don't get too smug, Daeron," Boromir told him. "You're about to turn eighteen and as soon as you're presented at Court on your birthday there will be plenty of match-making mamas eying you for their daughters."

"Of course," Laedren added as he sat down on one of the empty benches across from Daeron's chaise, "since you're going to be visible as part of Lord Denethor's guard that will make it all the easier."

Halmir covered his grin with his hand, thinking that perhaps it was a good thing he was a younger son and enroute to Ithilien."

Daeron stared at his father in horror. That was one aspect of his assignment that hadn't occurred to him. "Is it too late to request an assignment to the beacon near the Halifirion, my Lord?" He asked Boromir plaintively, that beacon being the furthest from Minas Tirith of the string running between Gondor and Rohan.

"Sorry, Daeron," Boromir grinned back at him. "Your assignment came from the Steward himself. I had nothing to do with it."

Halmir couldn't repress his laughter at Daeron's horror-struck expression, and shook his finger at his friend. "That's what you get for making such a good impression by being heroic when a sane cadet would have kept his head down!"

Daeron reached for his crutches, "Excuse me, if I start now I can..."

"Oh, no you don't." Laedren snatched the crutches out of Daeron's reach and dropped them behind the bench he was sitting on. "Besides, they eventually catch up with you... even though Ori has been leading most of them a merry chase for the last 16 years."

Bendrel and another servant then arrived on the scene, the former carrying more chilled wine and additional cups and the latter carrying a tray of sandwiches, fruit and other foodstuffs.

Daeron sighed and settled back to his former position. "All right, I guess I'll just have to deal with it."

Once Bendrel and the servant had returned to the house and all four man had filled (or in the case of Daeron and Halmir, refilled) their cups and taken some of the luncheon the butler had provided, Boromir turned his attention to Halmir.

"Given your uniform I take it you are heading out to Henneth Annun with my estimable brother. Congratulations, Lieutenant."

Halmir hastily swallowed the bite of sandwich he'd just taken, and answered, "Thank you, sir. In fact, I'll have to leave pretty soon. I don't want to be late for the muster."

"You realize that your joining the Rangers directly from the Academy is most unusual, don't you?" Boromir asked Halmir.

"Yes, sir. I know that I'm very lucky to have this opportunity. I want to-to show that Captain Lord Faramir's faith in me and my abilities is not misplaced."

"In fact, both of you are going to have a tough row to hoe, being among experienced veterans and away from your peers," Boromir continued. "These assignments aren't sinecures, in spite of what your former classmates might think. Whatever happens, remember who you are, what you serve, and keep your honor."

Halmir nodded. He'd heard the admonition before, but now that he was only hours away from leaving for his first posting, they meant more than when he'd first heard the veteran drill sergeants say the words when he and Daeron were gawky, gangly youths still learning how to properly wear the field uniform.

The bells indicating the change of guard rang out over the Citadel on the level above.

He started and scrambled to his feet. "Forgive me, I need to go now if I'm not to be late." He drew himself to attention and saluted Boromir, and then Laedren before turning to face his best friend and going to his one knee at Daeron's side. He reached for his best friend's right arm, and clasped it in a warriors grip.

Boromir and Laedren both returned Halmir's salutes and waited as he made his farewell to Daeron.

The young Ranger opened his mouth to say something but the words of farewell wouldn't come and he ducked his head as his throat tightened.

Daeron couldn't find words to say goodbye either and gently clouted his friend on the side of his head. "You better get going. And don't forget that west is that way." He squeezed Halmir's arm, released it and pointed in the appropriate direction.

Halmir chuckled and gently clouted Daeron back. "Best friends forever," he whispered.

"Best friends forever," Daeron whispered back.

The Ranger sprang to his feet and headed down the path to the garden gate, the sound of his boots increasing their pace as he disappeared beyond the shrubbery, to be silenced by the thud of the gate closing behind him.

Leadren poured out more wine and handed the cup to his son before topping off his and Boromir's cups. "To Halmir--may the Valar bless his path and bring him home safely."

"To Halmir."

"To Halmir," Daeron echoed Lord Boromir and emptied his own cup.

Boromir glanced at his aide and then back to Daeron, as he pulled a puzzle case from his belt pouch. "Er, Daeron-I need your assistance." He looked suddenly sheepish. "I can't remember the last step to open this thing up. Will you please show me again?"

Daeron blinked and eyed the Captain-General askance. But he took the case and slowly went through the steps to open it. "You have to remember to do the clockwise twist, my lord."

A glint appeared in Boromir's eyes after he successfully opened the case. "Thank you, Daeron. That has been more helpful than you know."

Laedren's eyes narrowed. "Ori..."

Daeron had a glint in his own eyes as he picked up on what was obviously going through Boromir's mind. "I'm sorry sir, but that won't work on the case the Lord Steward has." Boromir tucked his case back into this tunic and gave an exaggerated sigh. "You can't blame a man for trying, especially since Father just received a case of brandywine from Uncle Imrahil." Laedren snorted. "You'd be better off just asking your uncle to provide you with some of your own."

Daeron took the time his father and the Captain-General were busy teasing each other to finish pulling himself together.

The discussion of the merits of Dol Amroth brandywine versus that of Lebennin soon degenerated into a pun competition and Daeron couldn't keep his groan behind his teeth at a very convoluted and very bad play on words that Boromir returned to Laedren.

"I thought Halmir's puns were bad," he laughed as the two men turned amused eyes on him, "but that has to be worse than anything he's ever come up with."

Finally, Laedren surrendered, "Enough! I won't be able to keep a straight face the next time we dine with your father! When the toast is made I'll be seeing curly-coated hounds shedding!"

"Have the healers said when you'll be fit for duty yet?" Boromir asked, having magnanimously bowed towards Laedren in acceptance of his punny victory.

"Not really. Adoan just hems and haws and frowns at me before telling me to keep off the leg. And Balath doesn't say anything."

"Healers are like that--" Laedren began, then got to his feet, smiling, as he saw Meriel, carrying Finduilas in her arms, come into the garden from the back door of the house.

The baby's chortles sent the birds in the gardens trees a-chattering.

Daeron smiled as he spotted his baby sister. He'd have never thought that the little black haired scrap would have wrapped herself around his heart so fast and so much. He felt incredibly protective of her.

Boromir also rose to his feet when Laedren did, and bowed to the two ladies. Before he could straighten up Fin reached out and grabbed at his beard.

"Sure you don't want to shave the beard, Ori?" Laedren chuckled.

Boromir scooped Finduilas from her mother's arms and cuddled her close, blowing noisily into her middle, making her laugh louder. "And take away her favorite toy?" He grinned as he gazed down and the black-haired girl-child.

"Are you sure that you don't want to marry and have one of your own?" Meriel teased as she bent and dropped a kiss on Daeron's head.

Laedren dryly responded, "He said that the only lady he's consider wedding was already taken and he doesn't poach."

"And as bigamy is illegal..." Boromir added as he returned to his seat once Meriel had taken Laedren's.

Daeron reached for his leatherworking kit and started to put the tools and scraps of unused leather into their proper places, only to have a small item fall onto the flagstones.

Meriel leaned forward and scooped it up into her hand. "Daeron, what's this?" A fine chain dangled from the pendant which was of hard blue-black leather, carved with a highly detailed scene of the Nine Ships of the Faithful riding a huge wave under the light of stars with a broken island in the background.

"Something I dreamed," Daeron said, not meeting her eyes. "I woke up three nights ago..."

Meriel gave him an astonished look, as she handed the exquisitely detailed pendant to her husband. "You dreamed of the drowning of Numenor?"

He shuddered and nodded. He'd been surprised that no one had come running into his room wanting to know what wrong because he was certain he'd screamed as the monstrous wave carrying the boats came towards him. He'd lit the lamp by his bed and reached blindly for his kit and feverishly carved the pendant until Anor's light began to gleam through his window.

Laedren ran his fingertip over the tiny ships. "One of our ancestors was on the ship with Elendil," he remembered. "Ori, look at this." He traded the pendant for his daughter.

Boromir looked carefully at Daeron after he examined the pendant

"Have you had any other dreams? Or carved any more scenes like this?"

Daeron nodded again and pulled out two other pieces and handed them to the Captain-General.

Seeing that Daeron was unsettled, Meriel got up and moved to sit on the edge of his chaise, sliding her arm behind his shoulder.

The second carving was smaller than the first and more lightly carved into the pale leather disc. But the image was clearly that of Anarion accepting the crown of Gondor.

She gave him a gentle squeeze and turned her attention to Boromir, although she remained quite aware of Daeron's expression.

Boromir passed the disc to Laedren and frowned as he saw the image on the last piece. It was a battle as seen from the west bank of the Anduin at Osgiliath, the bridge was in ruins, and orcs and monsters were fighting with Men. The detail was the stuff of nightmares, and if anything it was even more intricate and realistic than the first carving.

"When did you make these two, son?" Laedren asked, holding the pendant with Anarion out of Fin's eager reach.

"That one," Daeron indicated the disc, "I made the night before we left for the practicals. I couldn't stay asleep, but I don't remember dreaming anything." He swallowed and averted his eyes from the larger carving of the battle, plainly reluctant to speak of it.

Meriel hugged him again, but found herself at a loss for words.

Boromir looked between the carving and the subdued Lieutenant before speaking. "And when did you carve this one, Daeron?"

"Last night," Daeron finally whispered. His eyes were haunted. "I don't--this has never happened before."

"It looks to me that you've inherited your father's gift," Boromir said as he handed the carving back to Daeron. "But unlike him, you have a way to express what you 'see'"

"Gift?" Daeron couldn't help the tone of disbelief in his voice.

"I don't have visions, Ori," Laedren objected.

"No, but you have very accurate hunches. I've lost count of the number of times you've insisted something be done a certain way or that we take an alternate route on patrol and every time it's turned out to have saved us and our men."

Fin leaned forward, grabbing for the pendant that Boromir had handed back to Daeron, gabbling as she did so. Her big brother dropped the pendant back into in his kit and handed her a plain leather disc of her own to play with, laughing indulgently.

"Dae! Dae!" she crowed, and the disc immediately found its way into her mouth as she happily gummed it.

Meriel relaxed as she felt the laughter chase away the tension of the last few minutes as Laedren took a sip of wine and said, "I don't know that I'd call those prescience... the voice of experience, perhaps."

Daeron turned his attention back to Lord Boromir. "Is this 'gift' going to keep me out of active service, my Lord?"

Laedren handed Fin to Meriel who placed her on Daeron's lap, and snorted, "If it would be a bar to active service, he, " indicating Boromir with a nod of his head, "would not be Captain-General."

Daeron blinked. "You have visions, my Lord?" he asked, tucking his sister into his left elbow while he set the leatherworking kit back on the table.

"It's been know to happen to many of us with less dilute Numenorean bloodlines," Boromir said with a shrug as he reached once more for his wine. "The gift tends to appear in early manhood if it appears at all. So long as one isn't prone to falling into a dwalm in the middle of battle or while on horseback there's no reason one can't be on active duty."

Meriel asked, "You're just dreaming while you sleep, Daeron?"

"So far all I've had are these dreams," Daeron said. "And the feeling that I absolutely have to depict what I was dreaming about."

Meriel looked again at the image of the crowning of Anarion. "Do you have to carve it? Or would drawing work just as well?"

"I don't know. I just grabbed my tools because they were right there, I guess. My daybook and pen were on the desk on the other side of the room."

"Well, drawing on paper would be much more convenient out in the field," Laedren interjected, having poured his lady a cup of wine. "You would otherwise be leaving a trail of bits of leather all over Gondor."

Boromir chuckled at the mental image. "Of course, if you did, you'd be able to find your way back to where you'd been."

Daeron laughed aloud at that sally. "I guess that means I'm going to have to really learn how to use that compass Halmir gave me for my last birthday then."

"That would be a good idea," Laedren confirmed.

"Why didn't you say anything about this, Daeron?" Meriel asked.

"I thought I was going crazy after the second dream and then after last night..." he couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. "I don't think that battle's happened yet."

"Maybe it won't happen, son. Not all visions come to pass. A single decision could change things so that it won't happen." Laedren glanced at Boromir. "By your experiences, I'm sure you'll agree."

Boromir nodded. "Nothing is written in stone. Eru blessed us with free will as well as these other more-esoteric-gifts. I've found that these premonitions are more irritating than anything else. You have to go on and deal with whatever situation you're in regardless of what the visions show you-because nine times out of ten they just show you enough to make you concerned but never anything truly useful, such as the fact that the Dark Lord is going to attack Thursday next after tea."

"Well, I hope the visions stay restricted to dreams, my lord. I think I'd die of embarrassment to have one hit when I'm standing duty for the Lord Steward," Daeron admitted.

"Dream or vision, Lieutenant, you will tell your commanding officer when one occurs, understood?" Boromir said sternly.

Daeron immediately answered, "Yes, sir!" and swallowed the lump that had migrated into his throat, for at that moment the man sitting opposite him wasn't his father's best friend but the Captain-General of Gondor.

"Well, I hope he isn't going to attack Thursday next after tea," Meriel said lightly into the silence that followed Daeron's answered, "We are all to be at the Merethrond for the feast celebrating Lord Denethor's birthday."

She got to her feet and lifted Fin from Daeron's lap, "And, speaking of feasting, it is getting on to be time for the evening meal. Will you join us, Ori?"

Boromir had risen to his feet when she stood and now he bowed. "I would be delighted to share the evening meal with you, my lady, as well as your so charming daughter."

Laedren had also risen from his chair and shot a mirthful glance at Daeron, "Well, that puts us in our place. Are we to join you at table, or should Daeron and I fend for ourselves from the pantry?" He reached down and picked up Daeron's crutches from behind the bench, where he'd placed them earlier.

Daeron accepted the crutches from his father and got up from the chaise. "If it's going to be a formal meal, I think I'd prefer to raid the pantry."

The tocsin rang out warning that it was only an hour until the main gates of the city were closed for the night as the party lingered over fruit and cheese in the dining room of the Greyvale townhouse.

Boromir looked at Daeron. "My brother will be leaving the Citadel with his men for the gate. Come with me to bid them farewell as they pass."

"We'll all come," Meriel said, having returned from putting Finduilas to bed just as Boromir spoke.

Daeron nodded, "Yes, sir." He took his crutches from where they leaned against the table and rose from his seat.

Bendrel had pre-anticipated the move from the dinner table, and stood by the open front door, a straight-backed chair in his hands.

Daeron eyed the butler speculatively, and grinned. "Are you sure you don't have premonitions, Bendrel? You're always there with what's needed before anyone even has to ask."

The elderly servant smiled indulgently. "It's merely knowing the members of the household well, young sir."

"Well, however you do it, thanks."

As Lord and Lady Greyvale stepped out onto the colonnaded porch, the sound of steel-shod hooves sounded from the other end of the Sixth circle, getting louder as the riders approached.

The cavalcade that shortly appeared was of course led by Boromir's brother, Lord Faramir. When the Steward's younger son spotted Boromir standing with Laedren's family, he pulled up his mount, a dark chestnut from the cavalry pool. "There you are. I thought that you were upset with me or something when you didn't see us off at the stables."

"We insisted that he stay for the evening meal, Lord Faramir," Meriel said, before Boromir could respond to his brother. She smiled at him. "I wouldn't take no for an answer."

Boromir grinned smugly. "You should have come along with Laedren and I, Fara. I'm certain you would have enjoyed the company better than that at the Merethrond."

Faramir groaned, "You owe me, for that meal Boromir. All seven of Lebennin's daughters jabbering at one... I'm actually glad to be going back out in the field."

Boromir chuckled. "You should have told father that you needed to see to the final preparations for your men to head back to Henneth Annun."

Faramir frowned and bent in the saddle so his next words were for Boromir and Laedren's ears only. "I did tell him that. He practically frog-marched me to the Merethrond, growling that it wasn't my place to decide when and how the troops were to be deployed."

Boromir frowned, the words and attitude were distinctly out of character for their father. "I'm sorry, little brother." He looked along the line of paired horses that were waiting in various states of impatience, some of them tossing their heads and making their harness jingle. "If you are to be out of the gates ere sunset, you'd best be on your way."

He offered up his right arm to clasp Faramir's in a warrior's grip, pulling him down enough to press a kiss to the ranger's forehead. "May the Valar keep you and your men safe."

Halmir watched the farewell out of the corner of his eye with a lump in his throat. He didn't dare to look directly at Daeron any more than he'd been able to meet his mother's eyes as they'd passed his home.

"Something isn't right, but I don't know what. Take care, brother, and watch over our father. May the Valar keep you safe as well." Faramir straightened in the saddle and raised his hand to signal the column onwards.

Damrod reached over and placed a comforting hand on Halmir's arm. "Don't be a fool, Halmir. Make your farewell to your friend."

Daeron had been searching the column for Halmir and finally spotted him riding next to the black-haired Ranger that he'd beaten in the archery competition.

The newest Ranger flushed and ducked his head, then looked over at the doorway. "I'll see you in six months, Daer. And remember that you stillowe me an ale," he called.

"I owe you an ale? What about the three that you owe me?" Daeron called back. "Take care, Hal. And if you're not at the Three Bells in six months I'll come looking for you!"

"I'll be there, Valar willing. Eru bless, Daeron." The last words were called as Damrod urged his mount to move forward and Halmir's sturdy, non-descript mare stepped off in concert.

Daeron dropped back into the chair suddenly realizing that he'd gotten to his feet without using the crutches and his leg was now complaining about it.

Boromir watched the column out of sight before turning back towards his hosts.

Laedren laid a hand on Daeron's shoulder and, attempting to keep the young Lieutenant from slipping into a depression, teased, "What's this about owing ales? There's a story behind that, I'm sure. Let's get you back indoors, son."

"Is it always like this?" Daeron asked as he maneuvered the crutches so he could step over the threshold of the house.

Laedren didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Unfortunately, yes. It never gets easier to say farewell. You just learn to hide it better."

Daeron nodded and slowly hobbled down the corridor. He wasn't sure what was worse, the ache in his leg or the ache in his heart. Why didn't they tell you about this at the Academy?

Daeron halted at the foot of the stairway that led up to the family quarters and guest rooms, silently cursing his broken leg. Needing to use the crutches to get about was tiring and frustrating.

Laedren stopped when Daeron did, waving for Boromir to continue on to the parlour with Meriel. "Daeron?"

"I never thought about being apart from my friends. Not once in the whole time I was at the Academy. It's finally hit me that unless we're lucky to be on leave at the same time I'll probably not see them again. Especially Halmir." Daeron sighed, though whether from weariness or sadness not even he knew. "Why don't they tell you that?"

"If you knew from the start that you would likely not be assigned to the same units, would you have been less likely to have made those deep friendships while you were at the academy?"

His father put his arm across his son's shoulder and guided him towards the study.

"Yes...No...I don't know. Anyway, I've known Halmir my entire life!"

"Well, Halmir always was a special case," Laedren grinned as he kicked the footstool into place before the armchair closest to the study door. "It's not always true that you won't ever see your friends again."

Daeron gratefully fell into the comfortable chair and lifted the splinted leg onto the footstool. "What do you mean?"

"Do you know how the Captain-General and I became friends?"

"No. I don't think you've ever said."

Laedren sat down in the other armchair and relaxed back into it. "It was my very first day at the Academy, and the master at arms pointed at me and then at a bunk. Then he looked around at the other boys in my class and pointed at Lord Boromir and told him that he was my bunkmate."

"Now," he continued, "I'd met him before, on the occasions that your grandfather brought my mother and me to court with him, but it wasn't until that first day as cadets, I actually got to begin to know him."

"Which bunk did you take?" Daeron asked with a grin, remembering Val and Grethen's tussles over who got the top bunk until the Master at Arms settled it arbitrarily.

"I didn't have a choice, the Master at Arms pointed at the bottom bunk and told me that it was mine." Laedren chuckled. "Since Ori and I were of a height, it didn't really matter that much that he got the top one. Now, to answer your question-we became close friends despite his social rank, but after graduation, I was sent to Lossarnach, and he was sent to Osgiliath and it was a few years before we met each other again in the line of duty... right around the time that your mother first came to court. We were both stationed at the Citadel; my first stint as part of the Steward's guard. And it was as if the two years in between then and graduation hadn't happened in regards to our friendship."

He added, "And over the years in between, although I've been fortunate enough to be assigned as his adjutant, I've also had solo assignments that took me away from his side for months at a time."

"But you've never lost your friendship," Daeron said, a smile appearing on his far too serious face at last. "So Halmir and I will just have to do the same as you do."

"And your other friends as well. You'll find, Daeron, that the officer's corps is still a rather small world. You'll run into people you graduated with at the oddest times and places!"

"Who's talking about odd times and places?" Boromir asked genially from the doorway. "Your lady and daughter had made their way upstairs."

Laedren moved to get up from the arm chair to offer it to Boromir.

Boromir waved him back and settled on the hearthrug, stretching his legs out in front of him. "All you need 'Dren is a hound or two and this would be a perfect retreat."

Laedren grinned and shook his head. "Not so long as Meriel is allergic to shed dog hair. I promised her no hounds in the townhouse as long as I can keep my hunting kennels back at Greyvale Manor."

"Can't have everything, I guess. Well, Daeron, considering all your friends are on their way to their first assignments, I suppose you are itching to start yours."

Daeron couldn't resist and grinned as he answered, "Not itching sir, there aren't any fleas around here. But I am impatient to be useful again."

Boromir snorted in appreciation of the joke. "Ha!"

Laedren covered his own snicker with a cough. "With the number of puzzle cases you've been working on this last week, I'd say that you are being quite useful."

"I still have a half dozen to finish up." Daeron ruefully looked at his hands. He had a number of cuts on them from the work. "If too many are out there they won't be a secret anymore."

"True," Boromir said. "But trust me that when my father said he needed as many as he asked for, he had good reason."

"I know. I just think it might be better if they all had different tricks to them, instead of using the same one."

"But would the commander who receives a case with a message be able to open it if they were all different?" Laedren asked, "These will be used to carry messages between individuals who know how to open them by messengers who don't. If the commanders need to know fifteen different ways of opening them, that would constitute more of a risk."

Daeron nodded. "Blame Lt. Bedreth. He was so fanatical about operations security I can't not think about things without looking at them that way. Besides, I'd probably run out of ways to set up the cases if they all had to be different."

"Where are you working, Daeron?" Boromir asked. "In Jorrell's workshop?"

"No, sir. I've been working in my room here. There's too much traffic going in and out of the saddlery."

"Besides, hobbling to the saddlery every day would get Adoan and Balath descending on him even more than they do now," Laedren interjected dryly.

Boromir drummed his fingers on his thigh and appeared to be in deep thought. Finally, he spoke. "If I get you the materials and tools, can you do a commission for me?"

Daeron hesitated before answering with a question of his own. "Would this be a personal commission or a duty commission, my lord?"

"Personal, but it has something to do with the security of the realm."

A light tap came on the closed door of the study. Laedren called out, "Enter."

Bendrel slipped into the room carrying a tray with wine and three cups, which he set next to Laedren on a small side table before leaving the room with an indulgent nod.

Daeron waited until the latch on the door clicked and gave the butler a few moments to move away from the door before answering. "If it wouldn't be considered a conflict of interest, I would certainly be glad to fulfill any commission for you, my lord."

"Excellent. When you have completed your duties in my father's guard, I will provide the materials you'll need. I warn you, this commission will be rather time consuming." Boromir then nudged Laedren's foot with the toe of his boot. "Are you going to let that perfectly good wine go to waste, 'Dren?"

"Of course not," Laedren filled a cup and handed it to the Captain-General with a smile, before doing likewise for Daeron and himself. "I thought I'd just wait for you and my son to complete your agreement on this mysterious commission before sharing it around. But if you are going to be impatient..." He smirked and sipped at his own cup.

"So long as it won't interfere with my assigned duties, I can't see that it would be a problem, sir."

Boromir sent a mock scowl in the direction of his adjutant and took a swallow of the wine. "Impatience has nothing to do with it. No one should have to die of thirst whilst bargaining. Even those heathen Southrons offer their customers refreshment while the bargaining is going on."

Laedren gave a long and obvious stare around the study. "Well, I didn't think this room looked like a Haradric bazaar."

"Ha, ha. You missed my point entirely."

"Actually, Ori, I ducked on purpose."

Daeron sipped from his own goblet and relaxed, enjoying the banter between his father and Lord Boromir.

"I don't see any waterfowl in here, 'Dren, so why are you bring them up?"

Laedren picked up the wine bottle and held it out towards Boromir. "That's not up to your usual standard, Ori. Here, you obviously need more wine."

"So long as it's this good, I always need more wine. Especially since there's another batch of lordlings' and diplomats' daughters I'm supposed to escort to the Merethrond tomorrow night."

Laedren shook his head in commiseration and was quietly amused to see his son wince.

"Isn't there an incursion of orcs you have to see to, sir?" Daeron asked. "I understand that there have been numerous sightings in Ithilien lately."

"Unfortunately, my estimable brother is already on his way there, so that excuse won't work. And I didn't see any sign of the beacons being lit asking aid for Rohan either."

"Then I'm afraid you are stuck," Laedren commiserated. "Are you absolutely certain there isn't one female of suitable background that you could even consider courting? I'm not saying you should go off and get betrothed, but if you actually could point to someone, that might appease your father."

"There's not a one. My best friend snatched up the only lady who ever held my heart."

It said much of the men's friendship that it hadn't failed when Meriel chose Laedren over Boromir as her husband.

Daeron had known that Boromir had courted his mother, (at least he'd known it since the night before Finduilas' birth) but had assumed that the Steward's Heir had turned his attention to other ladies. Apparently, he hadn't. He lost track of the continuing conversation between his father and Boromir as he considered what his life would have been like if Boromir had been his father.

He found that he was uncomfortable with the idea. He certainly wouldn't have been allowed the freedom he'd enjoyed as a boy and as much as he liked and respected the Lord Steward the idea of him being his grandfather was a bit too much to deal with. And it was much more than likely that he'd never have been able to make the friends he'd made so easily.

Laedren glanced at his son to see his reaction to the truly atrocious pun that Boromir had just made and noticed that the goblet was tilting dangerously in the young man's hand. "Daeron?"

"What? Oh..." Daeron started and the goblet slipped from his fingers.

The red wine splashed as the pewter goblet hit the floor wetting both Laedren and Boromir's feet along with the comfortably worn hearthrug.

Laedren jerked his feet away, too late, and sighed. "Where were you, Daeron? A hundred leagues from here, at least." He began to heel off his boots, hoping the wine hadn't destroyed the finish that had taken a servant many long hours to perfect.

"I'm sorry. I..." Distraught and embarrassed, Daeron started to swing his splinted leg off the stool and go to assist his father with the boots. There was no way he could explain, not to either his father or Lord Boromir. "I'll polish them, sir."

Boromir was doing likewise. He shook his head at Daeron's offer. "Sit down and put that leg back up. Thank you for your offer but if I let anyone except Arthen touch these he'll be sulking for six months."

"And Jamis will do likewise," Laedren agreed. "He's got a reputation to maintain after all. And it was an accident, son. No need to treat it as if it were the end of the world."

"It's just embarrassing."

Boromir finally got his left boot off and was inspecting the damage. "Not too bad. At least it was wine and not the rot gut that the Ithilien Rangers make."

Laedren shuddered and laughed at the same time as he retrieved Daeron's cup and refilled it. "Oh, don't remind me! We should have put it out for the orcs. One drink of that and the Rangers would never need to waste arrows on them again. Hideous stuff."

"I spilled some onto the Ranger Commander once and I swear it began eating holes in his leather armor."

"Maybe I better not take anything from Halmir's flask when I see him the next time," Daeron said, seizing the change in topic gratefully.

"And what was in his flask the last time, Daeron?" Boromir asked, a teasing note in his voice, as he pulled off his other boot.

"Whatever it was, it wasn't drinkable. Potable, maybe, but not drinkable." Daeron smiled crookedly, remembering the taste of the first batch from Halmir's still. It wouldn't eat holes in leather but it certainly took rust off of chain mail that had gotten wet!

"Where did he hide the still, by the way. The commandant knew it was somewhere but no one ever found it," Laedren asked as he tugged the sopping hearthrug out of the way and tossed it towards the door.

"I never knew where it was. I don't think anyone knew except for Halmir. At least a dozen cadets who searched for it ended up caught in snares of various sorts before we gave up. And no, I wasn't one of them." He added. "I think he moved it around."

Boromir shook his head and grinned. "I almost feel sorry for my brother having your friend in his command. I wager that life in Henneth Annun won't be boring with him in residence."

"No, boring isn't an adjective that anyone could ever apply to Halmir. He's the person who stabbed me in the shoulder when I was eight years old, by the way."

Boromir, who had been taking a sip of the last of the wine in his cup, choked and spluttered. "That was Halmir?"

"It was an accident, and I did agree to try using his brother's knives when he suggested it." Daeron reached up absently and touched the shoulder where the scar, now silvered and faded still was. "Of course, he ended up stuck in a well with a broken leg for half the afternoon a year later because of me, so I guess he and I are even."

"I don't think three hours in a well with a broken leg is exactly equivalent to being stabbed in the shoulder with a knife," Boromir said, setting the cup down and wiping off his face. "Were there any other near fatal occurrences that you and he instigated that your father and I don't know about?"

"I don't think so. You both know about everything that happened while we were at the academy."

Laedren raised and eyebrow and regarded his son. "I'd say that was more than enough."

Daeron shrugged and sighed. "Halmir and I certainly couldn't be the only people to get themselves in trouble growing up."

"No, you're not. But I think I'm going to send Faramir a note about what Halmir is capable of. He deserves fair warning at the very least." Boromir got to his feet and crossed to the desk, rooting around the drawers until he found blank paper and a pen. Dipping the pen in the inkwell, he paused. "Do you have any message to pass along to your friend?"

"I don't think that most other boys ended up in the hands of the healers as often as you two did," Laedren said.

"I suppose not. But most of the time that wasn't my fault," Daeron responded to his father then turned to Lord Boromir. "Just that I wish him good luck, sir."

"Is that sentiment directed towards Halmir or my brother?"

"Both?"

Boromir gave short guffaw and started writing his note.

Laedren chuckled and said, "So, Daeron, what else has happened at the Academy that I haven't heard about yet?"

Daeron grinned sheepishly at his father. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Laedren exchanged a glance with Boromir then looked back at his son. "If any of it comes out later, is it going to impugn your honor? Or sully the honor of the Guard?"

"No. Actually, I just wanted to save Lt. Bedreth from an excess of blushes."

Boromir snickered. "I'm tempted to ask you to tell, but then I wouldn't be able to look him in the face at our next meeting, I suppose."

"Actually, as far as Lt. Bedreth goes, we kidnapped him after he came back from a tavern crawl right before midwinter leave and left him tied up like a Mettare gift in the wardroom."

Hi father, who had just take a sip of wine, half choked on a laugh.

Daeron snickered. "I've never heard anyone snore as loudly as he did. Anyway, we took turns keeping watch until the Master at Arms came in to light the fire and found him. We didn't want him to choke to death or anything, just to embarrass him."

Boromir lifted and eyebrow and smiled crookedly, looking as if he'd found an explanation for something. "That explains his sudden aversion to ale."

"Did he ever figure out who did it?" Laedren asked when he could speak again.

"He had his suspicions but no proof. So other than keeping a sharper eye on what all the cadets were up to for a while, nothing happened after that." Daeron grimaced as he suddenly remembered another prank that he and Halmir had pulled their first year that didn't go as smoothly.

Boromir set aside his pen, recognizing Daeron's expression. "I know that look. Spill."

Reluctantly, Daeron obeyed. "During our first year, the entire class got in trouble for something that two of the cadets did. Halmir and I didn't think it was fair that we were punished for something we didn't do and decided to play a prank on the Master at Arms to get even."

Laedren raised an eyebrow.

Daeron continued, "We gathered up every cricket we could find and put them in his quarters. We didn't know that he hated insects. We just figured the chirping would keep him awake. We got hauled out of our bunks in the middle of the night and called to attention. Unfortunately, Halmir didn't make sure all the crickets were out of the sack we'd carried them in. Just as Sergeant Ferris stopped in front of me it chirped."

His father cringed and laughed at the expression on Daeron's face at the same time. "I had no idea."

"Since the bag was under my bunk, the game was up. Halmir spoke up and said he was involved too just as the Sergeant was marching me out of the barracks. We both had to find every last one of the things and remove them from his quarters. Then he... er...," Daeron's face was bright red with embarrassment, "Well, he spanked the two of us and sent us back to the barracks."

"No wonder that never made it into the disciplinary log," Boromir laughed. "Ferris wouldn't want anyone to know that he was routed from his own quarters by a bunch of harmless insects."

Laedren nodded, "But what was the excuse for waking everyone up? People would have questioned that."

Daeron grimaced again. "It was 'Udun Week'. They'd been waking us up for every reason and no reason for three days by the time we pulled the prank."

Boromir nodded, remembering back to the week in which first year cadets were purposefully-well, not quite hazed-but put through somewhat unreasonable demands in order to take a disparate bunch of younglings and begin to teach them how to be a team, working from the bottom up.

"I have my own memories of Udun Week, and no, Laedren, you aren't going to tell your son what happened to us. It will just give his too fertile mind more ideas and I'm the one who will have to deal with the complaints of his commander!" he said as it looked like his adjutant was about to speak.

Laedren laughed and threw up his hands. "All right, Ori."

Daeron considered trying to get the story out of his father or the Captain-General but remembered how long it had taken him to find out just how his mother had broken Lord Boromir's nose and decided that it would likely take even longer to get this story out of them.

He shifted his splinted leg on the footstool again. It didn't hurt exactly but was increasingly uncomfortable.

"Are you in pain, Daeron?" Laedren asked as he noticed the apparent discomfort, his mien sobering. He moved to ring the bell for Bendrel.

"Would you believe me if I told you the inside of my leg itches?"

Laedren relaxed, "Yes."

"It's the oddest feeling. And neither Adoan or Balath told me that it would happen."

Boromir returned to his note, and looked up. "They likely never broke a bone."

"Have you, sir? Besides your nose, I mean."

"Daeron, you've met my horse." Boromir dipped the pen into the inkwell again, "Of course, I've broken bones--hooves coming down on toes tend to do that. And in my regrettable experience broken noses don't act in same way."

Embarrassed, Daeron blushed then grew somber. Mention of Boromir's Rohirrim stallion, Gyldenlac (usually known as The Idiot or Lack-Wit) brought to mind his dead mare, Ruinanor.

He decided against finishing the wine in his goblet and set it on the nearby table.

There came a quiet knock on the study door which opened before Laedren could say a word. Bendrel stood there along with a uniformed Citadel Guard. "You pardon, my Lords. There is a message for you."

Boromir signed his name on the note and motioned for the Guard to come all the way into the room. "What is it, Tethis?"

The guard looked as if he'd run from the Citadel to the townhouse. "My Lord, the Steward summons you and Lord Laedren to the Council Chamber immediately. Word has come of an attack near Osgiliath."

Daeron gulped and looked at the map that was pinned to the wall above his father's desk wondering how far Lord Faramir and his troop of Rangers would have gotten by now.

Boromir stood. "Tell my father that we'll be there directly." His eyes also flew towards the map, calculating riding speed and distance.

The butler had disappeared as the messenger blurted out the Steward's summons and moments later reappeared at the door bearing cloaks and Lord Laedren's sword rig in his arms.

"I can bet that my brother and his men are in thick of it. After you speak to my father roust out the Third Company. We'll be riding out immediately." Boromir continued as he drew on his boots.

"Yes, sir." Tethis saluted and disappeared down the hallway, his boot heels loud on the flagstones.

"Is there anything...?" Daeron asked as he reached for his crutches.

Laedren had already stamped into his abandoned footwear and was strapping on his sword. "No... yes. Send the pot boy to the stables with a message to have my and Lord Boromir's mounts readied. Then go wait with your mother. She'll worry."

"You're still on sick leave, Lieutenant," Boromir said as he drew on his second boot. "Don't forget it."

Bendrel had placed Laedren's cloak over his shoulders and held Boromir's ready for the Captain-General.

"Yes, sir." Daeron hobbled from the room as quickly as he could, glad that the study was only a few doors from the kitchens. He hastily sent the pot boy on his errand and returned to the doorway of the study.

Boromir nodded his thanks as his cloak was dropped over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. "Ready?" He asked, picking up the note from the desk as he spoke.

Daeron looked from his father to the Captain-General, feeling useless. Halmir was out there and for the first time Daeron wasn't at his back.

"You'll be able to deliver that in person if all goes well, Ori." Laedren turned to Daeron and embraced him, pressing a kiss of blessing on his son's forehead and then a kiss of parting on his mouth, in case the worst happened. "Eru bless thee, son, and keep thee in his care."

"Eru bless you, my father, and keep you in his care," Daeron choked out.

Laedren stepped into the hallway and headed for the door, where his wife, bearing a sleeping Finduilas in her arms, waited, her face white.

He put his arms around her and gave her a blessing as well, although his second kiss, to her lips, was considerably unchaste.

"Be safe, my love, come back to me," Meriel whispered as his lips left hers. Tears stood in her eyes but her expression said she wasn't going to let them fall.

"As Eru wills it, my darling." He kissed Finduilas' tousled head, careful to not wake the sleeping babe, and whispered a blessing over her as well.

Daeron watched his parents and worriedly bit his lip. He jumped when Boromir's hand fell on his shoulder.

"My lord?"

In a quiet voice, the Captain-General said, "Daeron, I don't intend for anything to happen except that we deal successfully with this incursion and return home safely; but if the worst should occur, know that should your father fall, your mother and sister-and you-will come into my care." He raised a hand to hush any verbal response from the young Lieutenant.

Daeron closed his mouth and nodded.

"And if I should fall, please, do what you can to comfort my father."

Daeron nodded again, struck by how much his Captain-General looked like Laedren. Suddenly he knew he had to speak and the words of blessing fell from his lips, "Eru, bless you, my Lord, and keep you in his care."

Boromir's hand tightened on Daeron's shoulder and he huskily returned, "And may he keep thee also."

Boromir leaned forward and kissed Daeron's forehead, the thought coming again to his mind that had things been slightly different, he would have the right to give a father's blessing to the young man, and then turned and strode towards the door to farewell Meriel and Finduilas.

Daeron hobbled down the corridor slowly, arriving next to his mother just as Laedren opened the front door and Boromir lifted a hand from Finduilas black curls. Then they were gone in the night, heading towards the torches that marked the tunnel entrance to the Citadel.

Daeron watched the two men he loved and respected most until they were out of sight and then closed the door, turning towards his mother and sister. Forgetting the need to keep weight off his injured leg he dropped the crutches and enfolded the two of them in an embrace.

TBC 


	13. Stength and Hope Part One

_Disclaimer__: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person._

**Through Daeron's Eyes: Strength and Hope - Part One**

_By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle_

Daeron stood at attention on the right side of the double doors that led from the Steward's study to the corridor, glad that he had drawn inside duty on this miserably hot and humid day. He heard a soft clink as his compatriot who stood on the other side of the portal adjusted the position of the glaive he held. The ancient weapon wasn't ceremonial in anything save appearance. The steel blade was wickedly sharp and could stab or cut a man down with the ease of a scythe through dry grass. Frankly, he prayed he would never have to use his.

Lord Denethor's secretary appeared around the corner of the corridor, his arms filled with scrolls balanced on top of two large ledgers. The thin greying man looked frazzled and hot, and walked at a fast clip, as if he were late.

He halted at the door and nodded towards Daeron's older companion, then turned curious eyes to the young Lieutenant. "Good morrow, Caerthan. Who is this?"

"Good morning Master Ovan. This is Lieutenant Daeron Greyvale. It's his first day of duty. Lieutenant, this is Master Ovan, Lord Denethor's secretary."

Ovan smiled at Daeron, his light blue eyes taking in the perfectly arrayed uniform. "Congratulations on your new posting. Now if you would knock for me and open the door when Lord Denethor bids entrance?" He glanced down at the unstable pile of scrolls.

"Yes, sir," Daeron answered then turned and knocked on the door, three short raps as he'd been instructed by the duty officer in this morning's briefing.

"Enter!" Denethor's strong voice penetrated the thick iron-bound wood.

Daeron shifted the glaive to his right hand and opened the door with his left, holding it open for the secretary.

"Thank you." Ovan entered, kicking his heel back to push the door closed again.

Caerthan said quietly, "Master Ovan's polite, and always thanks us. Not all of the staff is that kind, I'm afraid."

Daeron returned his weapon to his left hand and nodded before returning to attention. So far this duty wasn't that different from standing watch in the commandant's offices at the academy, save for the uniform worn.

Caerthan's lips quirked in a smile as he watched the new officer from the corner of his eye. "Did you get the short list of those people authorized to disturb the Steward when he is working in here?"

"Lord Boromir, Lord Faramir, Lord Laedren, and the Chancellor."

"Add Master Ovan and Seneschal Cai to that list as well."

"Yes, sir."

Not long after the secretary had entered the study, the door suddenly opened.

Daeron was already at attention but he found himself straightening even further.

"Ovan, sort out the pages listing the levies from Morthond and Lebennin. I will want to look at them when I get back from the Council meeting." Denethor swept from the room, clad in his usual black, fur-trimmed robes in spite of the heat of the day, the White Rod cradled in his left elbow.

"Yes, my lord." The secretary's voice followed the Steward into the hallway.

Daeron glanced quickly at Caerthan and returned his gaze forward at the other man's slight nod. The other part of this duty was to accompany the Steward to wherever he needed to go around the Citadel. He just needed an idea of which direction Lord Denethor was going!

The Steward paused and took note of his door wardens. "Lieutenant Greyvale, I see that the Healers have finally allowed you to take up your duty, so I assume your leg is properly healed?"

"Yes, my Lord," Daeron answered, grateful that his voice stayed steady and even.

"Good, then you will have no trouble keeping up with me." Denethor turned to the right, heading towards the stairs that would take him to the Council chamber. The Steward did not offer converse as he strode just ahead of Daeron's escort.

Daeron discovered that the Steward had a stride as long and quick as his eldest son's, and found he had to stretch his legs to keep up. He was now very glad of the exercises that Adoan had bullied him into doing while his leg was healing, otherwise he'd be puffing like a smith's bellows.

The route Denethor took kept them within the cooling stone walls of the Steward's House. When they got to the Council chamber door, the Steward paused, smoothing his robes for a moment and taking a deep breath as if bracing himself for a battle of some sort.

Lieutenants Frewen and Deleth, who Daeron had met in the Guards' barracks the evening before, stood at attention on either side of the Council Chamber entrance. When the Steward gave a minute nod to them, Deleth opened the door and Denethor proceeded in.

Frewen gave Daeron a quickly hidden smile as the young man followed the Steward, but Deleth, who Daeron had been told was one of Chancellor Maedreth's nephews, shot a scowl at him before closing the door once more.

There were a half dozen men waiting in the chamber, some few of them in quiet but intense conversation. Daeron went to his prescribed place two steps behind and to the side of the Steward's chair and tapped the butt of the glaive twice on the floor, which in spite of being polished daily bore a wear mark on the marble from centuries of repetition of the action.

The room fell silent and all six men present rose, turned and bowed towards the Steward who stood in front of his chair, the White Rod in his hand. Denethor eyed the attending council members who had come to their feet at his arrival. "May Eru grant us wisdom and guide us in our decisions this day," he said and took his seat.

The councilors took their seats except for Chancellor Maedreth, who fussily smoothed his over-decorated robes and nodded his head twice before speaking. "My Lord Steward, there are certainly more pressing matters in need of discussion than this wasteful aqueduct project."

"And what, in your opinion, Lord Maedreth, is more pressing than ensuring that the poorer elements of the city do not become the source of plague and disease from befouled water?" Denethor inquired in a smooth voice.

"There are plenty of wells in the lower levels..."

"Wells which go dry in the summer heat," pointed out one of the other councilors.

"Wells that have regularly found themselves contaminated, Maedreth," Lord Jhelen interrupted, "Your pardon, Lord Denethor, but this matter has been discussed a ridiculous number of times already and I am beginning to wonder if the Chancellor may have drunk from one of said wells and become brain damaged!"

The Chancellor gobbled inarticulately for a moment at the insult, and Denethor hid a smile with his hand as the Chancellor's supporters began to protest. The steward sat back in his chair and let the two sides argue for a bit.

Daeron stood with his eyes focused on a point halfway between himself and the far wall, listening to the arguments. He personally thought repairing the aqueduct would be a good investment but, Valar willing, it would be many years before he'd have to worry about making these kinds of decisions. He knew that if his father were present he would argue for the repair, but it seemed the rest of the senior council members were split in their opinions.

Denethor finally seemed to weary of the noise and rapped the White Rod sharply on the table top. "We shall poll the Council. But, I remind you, the final decision will be mine." He gave them his trademark "Ruling Steward" look and faced the Chancellor.

Maedreth glanced at the other councilors and then turned towards the Steward. "My vote is 'nay,' my Lord. There is no need for the expense."

"Lord Jhelen."

The Lord of Nimrais Vale bowed his head and said, "My lord I vote 'yea.' The aqueduct needs to be repaired else, we will face plague and possibly worse should the lower wells become contaminated."

Denethor nodded. "As Lord Greyvale isn't present, who has his proxy?"

"I do, my Lord," Jhelen answered. "I have been instructed to vote 'yea' on his behalf."

Daeron kept his face expressionless but was surprised to find out that it was Lord Jhelen who spoke for his father. It had been his understanding that Halmir's father held Laedren's proxy.

"Lord Formail."

Halmir's father rose to his feet and bowed. "I vote 'yea' my Lord." He said nothing more but returned to his seat. He'd been the least vocal of the lords during the discussion.

Lord Erethil, the eldest son of the ailing lord of Morthond, who also held Lossarnach's proxy, voted 'yea' and reported a 'yea' vote for Lord Forlong.

Lord Breslin of Edhellond, who held Lebennin's proxy, voted 'nay' for himself and also for the absent Lord Cesrith of Lebennin.

The last councilor to be polled, Lord Erllech of Anfalas, voted 'nay' without providing a reason, leaving the vote tied.

Denethor surveyed the six nobles and sat forward. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has given me his proxy of 'yea'." He kept his face straight despite the sight of the outraged expression that crossed the Chancellor's face. Lord Maedreth had apparently forgotten that Imrahil had a vote on the matter as well as the rest of the Council even though he was rarely in the City. "Lord Formail, I am putting you in charge of seeing this project completed. The City Engineer will be most pleased to speak you this afternoon."

The matter of the aqueduct apparently settled, much to Maedreth's irritation, Lord Erllech brought up the issue of the ever increasing trade tariffs on imported goods, particularly those out of Umbar and Harad, which started a rather heated debate that ended up tabled without resolution. The next item on the agenda was the military budget and conscription requirements which somehow changed to a discussion of Lord Boromir's lack of a wife and heir, said discussion which Denethor halted by rapping the White Rod on the table top. Once he had everyone's attention he folded his hands together and raised an eyebrow. "Is there any further business that _must_ be attended to by this council today?" It was obvious to all that particular subject was now closed.

Lord Maedreth looked as though he were going to speak but thought better of it, turning his head so his eyes didn't meet Denethor's but fell instead on the silent guard that stood behind and to the side the Steward's chair. A speculative look crossed his face for a few moments and then was quickly replaced by his usual supercilious expression.

The Steward took the silence as a negative answer and said, "Then this council meeting stands adjourned. Lord Formail, please remain."

Once the other councilors left the room Denethor stood and gestured for Lord Formail to accompany him to the far end of the room where three large windows looked out over the city.

Daeron kept his position but followed the Steward with his eyes, ready to move if necessary, but certain that Halmir's father was no threat.

The two nobles spoke quietly, their backs to the room, gazing out over the lawn before the Citadel at the White Tree. After about ten minutes Lord Formail bowed to Denethor and left the room. The Steward continued to look out of the window for a few moments, and then raised his voice, "Lieutenant Greyvale, to me."

Daeron blinked in surprise but immediately crossed the room to join the Steward. "My, lord?"

"Is your leg paining you at all?"

"No, my lord."

"Good. If you start to have trouble with it, request a relief and go directly to the healers."

"I will, my lord."

"Very well." The midday bells began to ring, their sounds deadened slightly by the thick walls of the council chamber. "Midday. Escort me to the Merethrond, and then go to your own midday meal." He turned and headed towards the door.

Daeron followed the Steward from the council chamber and found that the guard on the outside of the door had been changed. It took only a few minutes to escort the Steward to the Merethrond, even with two pauses for Denethor to exchange greetings along the way.

Once the Steward had entered the feasting hall, Daeron turned and made his way across the Citadel level to the Guard's mess near the buttery. He secured his glaive in the rack provided and removed his helmet as he stepped through the door. Appetizing smells wafted through the air of the mess from an open hatch and several men wearing the livery of the Citadel were carrying trays to the dozen tables that filled the majority of the room.

Like the Citadel corridors and the council chamber, the mess was blessedly cool and the dim lighting was soothing after the brilliant sunlight that flooded the courtyard from a cloudless sky, which was for once free of the smoke and fug of Mordor. After pausing to let his vision adjust Daeron looked round and saw Caerthan sitting at a table near the kitchen door.

The older guardsman grinned at Daeron. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it. Was it horribly boring?"

Daeron set his helmet down on the table and took the seat next to Caerthan. "Actually, it wasn't. The arguments were sort of amusing in a way. But I can see how it could be boring if there weren't any disagreements."

"As long as Maedreth is Chancellor, I'm sure that there's always going to be disagreements. Better get your tray, lad, we'll be wanted again shortly."

Daeron nodded and did so.

One thing he'd happily discovered about the Guard's mess was that the food was usually excellent. He had just turned to rejoin Caerthan when he was suddenly jostled and an elbow was planted hard into his back. The blow came just below the lower edge of his cuirass and, despite the padded gambeson and mail he wore, hurt. He managed to keep the tray from flying out of his hands as he caught his balance but the tankard of small ale fell to the floor. Luckily, the contents of the pewter vessel didn't splash anyone.

"I'm amazed that someone so clumsy would be assigned to the Steward's personal Guard," a voice said just loud enough to be heard over the conversations that filled the mess.

Daeron turned far enough to see that the speaker none other than Lieutenant Deleth and bit back what he was initially going to say. Instead he responded in an equally loud voice, "So am I, actually. Do you always have such trouble keeping on your feet? But no harm done; I'll just get another ale."

Caerthan and a few of the more veteran Guardsmen snickered as Deleth's face reddened with anger and embarrassment and he turned away from Daeron, sitting down at the far end of the table where he was joined by a handful of his cronies.

Daeron crossed the remaining steps to his chosen seat, set the tray down then retrieved his fallen tankard. The man who refilled it gave him a thumbs-up gesture and a friendly grin. Then he took his seat next to Caerthan, ignoring the nearby presence of Deleth. The man was a lot like Rolin had been and the best way to deal with him at this point was to ignore him.

The senior officer present then rapped on his table with the butt of his knife and rose to his feet, turning to face West. Daeron and Caerthan immediately stood and did likewise.

As Daeron turned back to take his seat at the conclusion of the Standing Grace he noticed that Deleth and most of the men seated at the far end of the table hadn't risen and, in fact, had started eating. Participation in the Standing Grace wasn't required in the mess but to talk and begin eating during it was most certainly rude. Deleth noted Daeron's look and sneered, muttering audibly to his companions, "The guard's always been selected from proven warriors. Greenie there had to have gotten in only because of who his father is."

Daeron heard the comment but fought to keep his face neutral. He reminded himself that any reaction would make the listeners believe whatever was being said. Deleth had obviously made up his mind about the matter and nothing Daeron could say or do (at least nothing that wouldn't land him in hot water) was going to change that. Instead he took his seat and asked Caerthan to pass the vinegar and oil.

The older officer grabbed the cruets from the middle of the table and handed them to Daeron, quietly murmuring, "Good, lad."

Daeron gave a little shrug, he apparently managed to mask his feelings successfully. "He reminds me of a couple of cadets who were in my class. Do we go back to guard the Steward's study this afternoon?" he asked, accepting the cruets from the older officer.

"Aye. And I hope you can ride well. Master Ovan told me that the Steward is scheduled to ride this afternoon, and that old war horse of his doesn't seem to remember that he's retired."

Daeron set the vinegar cruet down. "I can ride but--I don't have a horse." He took a deep breath and shoved the ache in his heart for Ruinanor down. "I had to put my mare down due to laminitis back in June."

He and Laedren had been to the horse sales several times before the Captain- General's adjutant had to leave for assignment but they hadn't yet found a suitable mount to replace the mare.

Caerthan paused, his beaker halfway to his lips. "Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. A hard thing to have to do, as I can attest from experience." He took a sip of his ale and added, "You'll be given a mount from the Guard's stables then until you can be found suitable by your next horse."

"That's exactly the problem; so far none of them I've met seem to think I'm the right rider for them."

"He or she will find you, Greyvale. Believe me." He began to spoon up the stew which had cooled enough to eat.

Daeron turned his attention to his own meal and listened as the man sitting across from Caerthan asked the older Lieutenant if he'd heard any word regarding the promotion boards, which question generated an energetic, if not necessarily polite, discussion that eventually included most of the nearby tables.

Deleth made a pointed comment about undue influence being put on the members of the selection board.

"Not if Lord Boromir has anything to say about it," the man sitting opposite Caerthan said. "You're just sore because you didn't make First Lieutenant the last time. Besides I don't know anyone who's made promotion his first time before the boards, except for Lord Boromir, and I dare you to tell him he got it because of who _his_ father is."

Deleth subsided, hiding behind his beaker, still scowling.

"Of course, it helped that he led a successful expeditionary force into Harad right before the board met," added another man.

Another second lieutenant said, "I wish there were more opportunities for advancement, but there aren't enough slots for everyone."

"It's more than likely that each opening these days is likely because of an officer's death in action rather than cascading appointments due to someone retiring." Caerthan said. "I hope we _never_ have enough slots for everyone to be advanced the first time around."

Daeron looked up at that and debated whether to say anything. Deciding to keep his thoughts to himself he shook his head slightly and turned his attention back on the remains of his meal.

Shortly thereafter the tocsin rang, announcing the beginning of the next hour and most of the men stood up, reaching for their helmets and weapons.

Caerthan remained seated. "The Steward will be at his meal for another half hour. We needn't to rush back to our post quite yet."

Daeron was glad to hear that because the food in the officers' mess was very good and a welcome change to what he'd grown used to calling food over most of the past five years.

Caerthan rummaged in his belt pouch for his short stemmed pipe, and thus didn't see Deleth tilt his tray as he passed behind them en route to the scullery. The beaker tipped and the unfinished ale poured out, going right down the back of Daeron's uniform. Deleth then straightened his tray, grabbed the beaker and continued towards the scullery hatch as if nothing had happened.

""Wha---?" Daeron jumped as the ale soaked his neck and back and shot to his feet, spinning to see who had dumped the liquid on him. As quick as he was, he couldn't tell who might have done it. "Oh, great. This is just what I need," Daeron muttered as he wrung ale out of his hair. "Do I have enough time to go back to barracks and get changed before we have to be back on duty?"

Caerthan looked at the time candle that burned steadily behind its glass shield on the shelf near the food hatch. "Aye, if you hurry. You've got twenty five minutes before you need to go back to the Merethrond. I'll have my smoke and wait for you." He had his own suspicions about who had done the deed, but since there was no proof, he kept his thoughts to himself. There was usually a bit of good natured ribbing and teasing of new members of the unit for the first few days but it was understood that certain things, like ruining a uniform before the victim had to return to duty, wasn't acceptable. He'd keep his eyes open and see if he could sort out who the disgruntled individual with the apparent grudge against young Greyvale was.

Daeron thanked him, picked up his helmet and decided to leave the glaive in the rack since he'd be coming back to meet Caerthan. He was glad the barracks assigned to the members of the Steward's personal Guard were in the Citadel grounds themselves. If he'd have had to go down to one of the lower level barracks the rest of the Tower Guard were billeted in he'd never get back to duty on time. As it was, he was able to hastily wash the ale from his hair and skin before donning a clean uniform. He also mentally thanked Grethen who'd come up with a way to get into and out of the cuirass without completely undoing all the straps and buckles so he didn't need to seek out anyone else to assist him back into the armor. He arrived at the mess again with three minutes to spare.

Caerthan was standing by the weapons rack and handed Daeron the glaive, giving him a visual once over. "Take a deep breath and calm down, you're not late yet."

Daeron did so with a crooked smile at his companion. "I knew something had to go wrong today. It could have been worse, I suppose."

"Ah, at least you didn't catch your heel on the doorsill of the Hall of Kings and land on top of the Old Steward, Lord Ecthelion." Caerthan saluted the White Tree as they passed it en route to the Merethrond.

"That certainly proves that you can't die of embarrassment, doesn't it?" Daeron couldn't resist asking.

"No, you just wish you would." The senior Lieutenant silently approved of Daeron's correct salute, and turned his attention to the building they were approaching. "Wait right outside this portal," he said, "until the Lord Steward comes out, and then go where he does."

"Yes, sir. And thank you." Daeron took his place and came to attention.

Caerthan nodded and marched off to the corridor that would take him back to the study.

Later that afternoon Daeron followed the Steward and Master Ovan through the tunnel from the Citadel to the Sixth level where Denethor turned towards the stables. He'd been informed that a mount would be waiting there for his use as he and five other guards would be accompanying the Steward as he exercised his warhorse.

Caerthan had warned Daeron that nothing short of open war at the gates of the city prevented the Steward from riding out each day, regardless of the weather. Given that the Steward wasn't permitted by law to leave the City save for such small excursions as this or a visit of state to a nearby friendly ally, Daeron could understand him not wanting to give up the small taste of freedom.

Finishing his conversation with his secretary, the Steward strode slightly ahead of his escort through the arched gateway of the stables, pleased to see Thoronnaur already tacked and eagerly awaiting his escape from the stone confines of the City. Denethor moved to Thoronnaur's head and spoke quietly to him, reaching up to rub the chestnut stallion's favorite spot behind his ears as he greeted his mount.

Thoronnaur was a King's Line Rohirric stallion, affectionate and loving to his rider, death on four hooves to any that dared accost him, and beautifully conformed; strongly muscled, his red-gold coat still glossy and bright even as he neared the age of twenty-five. Ovan nodded as Denethor turned towards him one last time then stepped back out of the way.

Daeron followed the other guards' lead and placed his glaive in the rack that stood by the stable doors. Grooms and stable boys were leading out the guardsmen's horses, or in some cases, running alongside as the horse headed unerringly to his or her rider.

Deleth took the reins of a grey gelding that looked to have Dol Amroth bloodlines, turned his back on the stable lad without giving him any thanks, and mounted up. He sat stiffly in the saddle, and the grey sidled as he took up the slack on the reins far harder than he needed to.

None of the Guards' mounts were anything near poor specimens, but the last horse being led from the stable outshone them like the sun outshone the moon. The stallion was a glossy black with four white socks and a star on his brow. He was tall, about eighteen hands at the shoulder, with a finely arched neck and elegant top line, solidly built and well muscled, and obviously of the same bloodline as the Steward's own mount. Daeron barely remembered that he needed to breathe as the stable master himself led the stallion to the newest member of the Steward's Guard.

"His name is Beleg-Mor," the grizzled man said placing the reins in Daeron's hand with a smile.

Deleth's eyes narrowed beneath his helm as he took in the magnificence of the stallion. He hauled on the grey's mouth as his sudden tension communicated itself to the gelding causing the beast to sidle nervously. He didn't miss the fact that, save for colour, the Steward's mount and Beleg-Mor could have been brothers. _The black was fit for the absent king to ride_, he thought. _So why was he being given to the youngster?_

Daeron couldn't believe his eyes. This gorgeous animal was his to ride today? He offered the flat of his hand to introduce himself and was stunned when the stallion ignored it and placed his chin on Daeron's shoulder, to snuffle at his ear before lifting it with a look that said quite plainly, _"What are you still doing down there?"_

Denethor paused a moment before swinging himself up onto the chestnut's back, a quickly hidden smile quirking the corner of his mouth as he watched the expression on his newest guard's face.

Daeron suddenly realized that he was keeping the Steward waiting, blushed, apologized and mounted. Beleg-mor was a much more massive animal than Ruinanor had been. Had Daeron been riding this horse that final day of the senior practicals the runaway gelding would have most certainly have bounced off the stallion instead of knocking him down.

Denethor took his time settling in the saddle, adjusting his riding gloves, and flicking a stray piece of Thoronnaur's mane back to the correct side of his neck. But he watched Daeron closely as the young man spoke quietly to Beleg-Mor as he set his stirrups to the proper length and checked his girth before gathering the reins up and asking the stallion to bring his head in and collect his quarters beneath him. All the while Beleg-Mor's elegant ears flicked back and forth, listening and learning his rider's voice. He'd been most carefully trained and already trusted and liked Daeron. The black had apparently decided within moments of meeting the Lieutenant that this particular young human was an acceptable rider.

Denethor finally gave Thoronnaur his office and headed out of the stable yard at a dignified walk. Daeron followed, delighting in Beleg-Mor's easy action. He could feel the power the stallion held in reserve and wondered if he'd get a chance to find out what a full out run felt like.

Deleth immediately yanked his grey's head round and kicked the gelding so that he took the position to the right and a bit behind the Steward, cutting in front of the other horses without paying attention to anything save what was in front of him. The other guards grumbled under their breath at Deleth's arrogant action, but fell into the usual doubled line and followed the Steward through the Sixth level towards the gate to the Fifth level.

Even with the excitement of riding such a wonderful horse Daeron didn't forget his duty and kept his eye on the people that filled the street at this time of the afternoon. He heard Lt. Bedreth's lecture on awareness replay in his head and his constant reminders that an enemy could be anyone, anywhere.

Deleth's grey suddenly threw its head back to relieve the pressure on his mouth, and broke gait, startling Thoronnaur.

"If you cannot control your mount, Lieutenant, withdraw to the rear of the formation until you can," Denethor snapped over his shoulder as he easily brought Thoronnaur under control.

The grey sidestepped nearly knocking into the guard at his side, and Deleth bit off a curse as he was forced to obey the Steward's command.

Daeron didn't miss the unsettled dancing and head tossing that the unhappy grey was doing at the head of the column and his sudden alertness communicated itself to Beleg-mor. The line rearranged itself to fill in the gap that Deleth had left, which put Daeron in the middle of the line, with Lt. Gelim's easygoing roan behind him. He felt sorry for Deleth's grey. The gelding was well-trained but his rider left much to be desired.

At the main gate, the Steward paused to inform the watch officer, "We are riding along the Anorien Road." It was a habit he'd maintained since his youth, as his father Ecthelion had been adamant that his heir not go anywhere without someone knowing the destination, just in case a rescue might be required.

"I will note it in the log for my relief, my Lord," the officer replied with a sharp salute.

Thoronnaur tossed his head impatiently and neighed his displeasure at being so close to the green edged road and still having to remain within the walls. Beleg-Mor's ears went forward as he recognized the scent of the greensward beyond the gates but he remembered his manners and waited quietly save for pawing the cobbles once or twice with a forefoot.

"Anon, anon, Thoronnaur." Denethor returned the salute then, barely touching the stallion with his heels, set him into a quick walk; warming him up slowly as they headed north.

Daeron gave Beleg-mor his office and the black stepped out neatly to follow Malden's mount.

As the Thoronnaur warmed up, Denethor urged him into a faster gait until the dust of the Anorien road became a thick cloud arising from beneath the horses' hooves. The Steward relaxed, the tensions of the day beginning to melt away as he moved along with his mount.

Beleg-Mor went into a smooth as silk trot and mouthed the bit, asking Daeron to let him extend it, but he listened and settled back into collection again when his head was gently brought back in. The youngest Guard was reveling in being on the back of such a responsive horse and whispered praise as the group moved from the trot into a canter. If Beleg-Mor's trot was smooth, his canter was a delight to sit. Daeron wondered to whom the stallion belonged, because he definitely wanted to thank whoever it was for the privilege of riding such a wonderful horse. It would be years before he could afford to purchase a horse of even half the quality of Beleg-Mor, assuming he even find one.

Gelim's roan came up along side of Beleg-mor, and the older guard nodded to Daeron as the gelding paced the stallion. Deleth's grey then drew up on Gelim's right, still fighting his rider's too hard pull on his mouth.

Daeron nodded back and adjusted his helmet strap. If it wasn't for the breeze created by the horses' movements he'd be sweltering. As it was the helmet was almost but not quite uncomfortably warm.

Thoronnaur made it plain to Denethor that he'd cantered long enough, thank you very much, and wanted to gallop _now_. The Steward leaned over the chestnut's neck and signaled with hands and heels permission to change gaits, and the stallion eagerly complied. The other horses, particularly Deleth's grey, were beginning to show dark patches of sweat on their chests and flanks, while Thoronnaur and Beleg-mor still looked as if they'd just come from a show ring.

Daeron saw the Steward pull away from the guards and, following Malden, lifted the black stallion into a gallop, The other guards following suit. Their mounts' hooves thundered along the grassy verge of the Anorien road, with the exception of Deleth who kept the grey on the dry and hard-packed roadbed. The group galloped on for some time then suddenly the grey stumbled. Deleth cursed loud enough for Daeron to hear him as the second lieutenant pulled the grey's head sharply up.

The confusion that followed set the guards and their mounts in disarray while Thoronnaur continued carrying the Steward further away at speed. Daeron signaled for Beleg-mor to slow and managed to not be in the way when the grey reared, his eyes white rimmed with distress. The grey came down, only to blunder into Gelim's roan. He saw Malden and Vorlas glance back as he guided Beleg-mor around the pile-up and urged the horse back into the ground eating gallop.

Ahead of them, Thoronnaur was stretching out into an outright run, and behind him Gelim's roan screamed as one of the grey's steel-shod hooves sliced along the cannon of the near foreleg, adding to the confusion.

Haron managed to detangle his mount from the pile up, apparently uninjured, but by then, the other three were already away in pursuit of the Steward, with the black easily outdistancing the other two guards.

Daeron winced at the sound of the distressed horses behind him but Vorlas and Malden's mounts were obviously not capable of keeping up with Thoronnaur. Daeron moved his hands forward and let Beleg-mor run full out, attempting to reach Denethor before the chestnut got too much more of a lead.

Denethor glanced back over his shoulder and saw Daeron closing in. Beyond the young lieutenant, he could see three of his guard in a blur of horses and dust, one of them downed. He began to collect Thoronnaur, drawing him back from the fantastic charge that had, for a few minutes at least, made the steward forget about the burdens of state.

Beleg-Mor's strides covered the distance between himself and the older stallion with ease. His ears were fully forward and he showed no sign of wanting to stop. However, when Daeron asked him to return to a more reasonable gait, he did so with only a discontented snort to indicate that he would have liked to run much further. He guided the black to a position just behind and to the right of the Steward's mount and transferred his reins to his left hand and loosened his sword in his scabbard, being that he was now Denethor's only guard. The run had been glorious but he still had his duty to perform.

Denethor coaxed Thoronnaur back down into a canter and turned him back towards the City. "Ride next to me, Lieutenant Greyvale," he ordered. "We'd best see what the damage is."

Beleg-mor was breathing a bit fast but not blowing, and feeling a change in the balance of his rider, stopped playing and concentrated on business. He was a warhorse after all, and knew just what that slight settling in the saddle meant. Daeron brought Beleg-mor up alongside the Steward and the two stallions cantered on, their steps nearly synchronized.

"Did you see what happened?"

They had traveled nearly a mile beyond the kerfluffle, and were only now coming up on Malden and Vorlas, who wheeled and fell in behind Daeron and the Steward.

"Yes, my lord. Lieutenant Deleth's grey stumbled, then reared soon after the lieutenant brought his head back up. I think he lost a shoe."

Deleth was cursing at his grey who was dancing around, his off forefoot held off the ground and his eyes still white rimmed. Haron, who had dismounted to check Gelim's downed mount, tossed his reins to Gelim and finally grabbed the grey's bridle. "Dismount, you idiot! Can't you tell Cein lost a shoe, for Valar's sake?"

"Unfortunately, it looks as if losing a shoe is the least of the problems." Denethor slowed Thoronnaur further, finally halting as they approached the downed roan. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, and looked to Gelim. "Are you all right Lieutenant Gelim?"

Gelim had Haron's mount's reins looped over his arm while he held his cloak against the gash on his own mount's leg. Haron's bay was making no attempt to pull away but seemed to be comforting the injured sorrel.

"Aye, my lord, just bruised, but Menefil's leg is gashed."

Deleth had finally dismounted and was obviously furious as he moved to look at the hoof that had thrown the shoe. Cein protested, sidling away with a limp.

Menefil lay on his side panting, but obeying Gelim's command to be still. A number of the horses in the Citadel stables had been trained to provide heat and shelter for a downed rider and that was the command that Gelim had used when he realized the gelding would injure himself further by trying to rise.

Haron pulled Cein's head down, murmuring soothingly at him before sharply telling Deleth to leave off since he was only making matters worse.

Denethor's sharp eyes and ears did not miss the quietly spoken reprimand.

Cein hung his head and shuddered, the panic in his eyes decreasing as he listened to Haron.

"Malden, you stitched Obsidian's flank that time we were caught on the edge of that rock fall," the Steward said. "See what you can do for Menefil."

Malden nodded and dismounted, handing his reins to Vorlas, and pulled a packet from the small bag attached to his saddle as Daeron kept half an eye on the men and horses but most of his attention on the land around them. Though they weren't all that far from the City, and were still well within the bounds of the Rammas Echor, it was still possible that either orcs or men of foul intent could be hidden out of sight. Vorlas was doing likewise, holding both Haron's and his own reins in his left hand.

Thoronnaur swung his head around and made a mock bite at the water skin that hung from the front of Denethor's saddle. The Steward laughed, "Thirsty, Thor?" He dismounted and took the water skin and poured some water into his hand for the stallion to drink. "Only a bit now. The rest when you've cooled down properly."

Thoronnaur drank all that was offered and then snorted into Denethor's hand.

A fragment of sugarloaf found its way from Denethor's pocket to Thor's whiskered mouth. "There's your treat, old man." The Steward patted Thoronnaur's neck then turned his attention back to Malden's first aid treatment.

Haron continued whispering to Cein until the animal quieted, then gently lifted the damaged foot. He frowned when he saw the damage to the hoof. "Deleth, how could you have missed the fact that Cein's shoe was loose? He's going to have to go out to grass until the hoof grows back."

"There was nothing wrong with the shoe when we left the City," Deleth said defensively.

"That may well be, but he didn't stumble from losing the shoe. He stumbled because his unprotected hoof broke down when you took him onto on the hard roadbed--where you shouldn't have been in the first place! You should have felt the change in gait long before that happened." Haron was well and truly angry in spite of his relatively quiet tone. This wasn't the first horse the Chancellor's nephew had lamed or injured.

"Greyvale, take Thoronnaur's reins." Denethor handed them up to Daeron, his eyes narrowing as he overheard Haron's words. Daeron obeyed and shot a glance towards the officer in question before returning his attention back to watching for further trouble. The chestnut stallion arched his neck and pawed the ground once, turning his head towards Beleg-Mor's neck. Daeron felt the tension in the younger stallion's body but the horse didn't respond to Thoronnaur's challenge. He hid a smile as he translated the black's action; Challenges were for the paddock, Beleg-Mor was on duty and _surely_ a warhorse of Thoronnaur's experience should know that.

Denethor strode over to the grey and patted its neck gently as he stared at Lieutenant Deleth in silence for a moment before turning to Haron. "How bad is it, Lieutenant Haron?" He bent to look at the hoof in question.

"As you can see one of the nails punctured the frog, my lord. And a goodly portion of the hoof wall is broken away. He needs to be seen by a farrier as soon as possible," Haron answered then returned to soothing the gelding.

"Aye." Denethor's expression was grim as he straightened and turned towards Deleth. "Remove your right boot, Lieutenant."

Deleth stared at the Steward in confusion. But he hastened to obey when he saw the Steward's jaw tightening. Haron hid a satisfied grin as he poured water from his canteen so that Cein could drink.

Denethor took the polished boot from Deleth and handed it to Haron once Cein had taken some water. "You will walk your mount back to the city. Only when Cein is safely with the farrier on the Sixth circle, will Lieutenant Haron return your boot to you. At that point, you will report to the Watch Commander for further orders. Lieutenant Haron, you and Malden will escort the lamed mounts back."

Malden straightened up and returned his needle to his kit. "Good lad. All right, Gelim. Tell him he can get up." He then turned towards Denethor. "Yes, my Lord."

Haron bowed, "Yes, my lord." He then turned back to Cein, dropping the bit from the gelding's mouth before handing the grey's reins to Deleth. "You'll walk at his pace, Deleth."

The man took the reins with bad grace, but said nothing, seeing the Steward's disapproving gaze still on him.

Satisfied that the injured animals would be carefully returned home, Denethor returned to Thoronnaur and retrieved the reins from Daeron's hand. Having done so, Daeron told Beleg-mor to step away from the chestnut so that Denethor would be able to mount without interference.

Thoronnaur snorted at the half-shod Deleth and stepped off as soon as Denethor gave him his office. Daeron followed, riding next to Vorlas, still alert for danger. His first excursion guarding the Steward certainly hadn't been boring!

Fortunately, the remainder of the ride back to the City gates was uneventful, although when the commander of the Gate guard saw only two guards returning with the Steward instead of six, he nearly panicked.

"Peace, Captain," Denethor told him. "One of the horses threw a shoe and in the process another was injured. The remainder of my escort are returning to the City at a pace to accommodate the injured animals."

"I'm sorry to hear that, my Lord. I'll have the watch keep an eye out for them."

"Send a message up to the Watch Commander at the Citadel that I wish to speak with him immediately. He is to meet me in the stables."

"Yes, my Lord. I'll send the runner immediately." The guard saluted and stepped back as the Steward and his two guards rode on. He then called for the runner and sent him on his way with the message, thinking that people were wrong about gate duty being boring. In his personal experience there was never a dull moment.

Denethor guided Thoronnaur up through the levels, drawing him to one side as the runner raced past him, saluting, on his way up to the Citadel's Watch Commander.

The stable master emerged from the barn as the party entered the yard and he called for the stable lads to come and see to the horses.

Denethor dismounted and went around to Thoronnaur's head, another piece of sugarloaf having already migrated from pocket to his hand. "Tomorrow we'll have a proper run, Thor," he promised in a whisper. As the aging chestnut crunched the treat, the Steward waved away the stable lad who usually dealt with the stallion. "I will tend to him today, Rhys. And when the Watch Commander arrives, send him to me."

"Aye, my lord," The tow-headed teenager said as he bowed, then went to assist elsewhere.

As he led Thoronnaur towards his spacious loose box, Denethor cast a glance at Daeron, who had halted Beleg-Mor and patted his neck, quietly praising him before dismounting, approving of his careful handling of the magnificent black.

Vorlas interrupted Daeron before he had a chance to run up his stirrup irons. "Go ahead and tend your mount. I'll stand watch this time."

The stable master had arrived on the scene in tie to hear Vorlas' words and snorted as he glanced at the sweat-streaked and dusty blue-eyed, white mare the Lieutenant had ridden. "You just don't want to go to all the trouble of giving Celeloth a bath." The other lieutenant cheerfully agreed and handed over his reins to one of the stable lads.

Daeron grinned and ran up his irons before catching the stablemaster's eye. "Which box is Beleg-Mor's?" he asked.

Stable Master Alaric led the way down the aisle and gestured towards a roomy but sturdily built box stall across the aisle from Thoronnaur's. "Here it is, Lieutenant. I can have one of the lads take care of him for you."

"No, thank you. I'll take care of him." Daeron led Beleg-Mor into the indicated box and untacked him as the black started pulling hay from the net that hung in the corner of the stall. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with the stallion before he had to leave him. When he stepped out of the box to put the saddle and bridle away, he found that someone had brought buckets of water and brushes.

"Thank you," he told the stable lad who was lugging a third bucket down the aisle as he turned back towards the box after putting the tack away. Then he stripped off his armor and gambeson and rolled up his sleeves.

Before entering Beleg-mor's stall, he noticed that Denethor had shed the outermost layers of his clothing, leaving a black linen tunic over a gauze shirt and sueded leather leggings, looking very unlike the dignified Ruling Steward as he collected a brush and began to sweep the dust from Thoronnaur's coat. Lieutenant Vorlas had taken up a position of attention where he could see the Steward and the entrance to the stable.

Beleg-Mor had excellent stable manners and stood quietly as Daeron began to groom him, only shifting his weight and turning his head to watch the stable lad set a fourth bucket of water down right outside the box door. "You'll get your drink in a few minutes," Daeron promised the stallion as he reached for a hoof pick. As soon as the tool was in his hand Beleg-Mor's near forefoot was lifted up. Daeron couldn't help being envious of the owner of this wonderful horse. It obviously took longer to groom a horse the size of Beleg-Mor than it had Ruinanor but it actually ended up being an easier job as the black wasn't as skittish as the mare had been.

Shortly thereafter, while Denethor was brushing Thoronnaur's off side, the Watch Commander arrived.

Captain Verandel reporting as ordered, my lord," the Watch Commander said with a salute.

Denethor gave Thoronnaur a pat on the neck and came to the entrance of the loose box. "Lieutenant Deleth will be reporting to you upon his return to the City."

"Yes, my Lord. I understand there was an accident?"

"Aye. I did not see exactly what happened. However, Lieutenant Greyvale did." Denethor indicated Daeron with a nod of his head. He raised his voice. "Lieutenant Greyvale, to me."

Daeron straightened up, gave Beleg-mor a quick pat and exited the box, securing the door latch and dropping the hoof pick and brushes in one of the now empty buckets. He approached the Steward and despite being out of uniform, saluted. "Yes, my lord?"

"Tell Captain Verandel what occurred which caused the injuries to Cein and Menefil."

"Yes, my lord." Daeron turned towards the Watch Commander and succinctly described what happened. "I think the initial stumble was an accident caused by the lost shoe but the rest of the situation was caused by Lieutenant Deleth's treatment of his mount."

Stable Master Alaric was passing by, leading another horse to an inner stall and paused long enough to ask, "Deleth? Has he damaged _another_ horse?" His expression was angry and he appeared to be looking forward to having words with the Lieutenant once he got back to the stables; words and maybe more than words. Daeron found himself fervently hoping he was never the recipient of such a look.

"Apparently so," the Watch Commander said. "Since the man doesn't know how to treat his mount, I'm sure there are other duties that he can perform where he needn't be near a horse. Of course, a good number of those duties are rather unpleasant."

"Good," Denethor stated before turning to the Stable Master. "How many animals has he been responsible for injuring?"

"This is the fifth animal he's injured in the past year."

Denethor's eyes narrowed. "_Five..._ Captain, Lieutenant Deleth is to be immediately removed from the rolls of my personal Guard and transferred to the regular army--after he has served whatever you think to be an adequate punishment detail for his actions."

"Yes, my lord. I'll see to it at once."

"Thank you, Captain. I'll let you get back to your duties." Denethor accepted the man's salute and the Watch Commander left.

At this point Thoronnaur had had enough of being ignored and reached over the stall's half door to snatch the brush that Denethor had stuffed halfway into a pocket when the Watch Commander had arrived. Denethor turned towards his own stallion just in time for Thoronnaur, holding the brush bristle side out, to bob his head and catch the Steward's long, greying locks with it.

Suddenly the sound of splashing water, followed by a thud, was heard from Beleg-Mor's box. Daeron spun round and found that a stable lad was standing in front of the door alternately staring down at his soaked boots and breeches and looking up at Beleg-Mor who had his head over the door and a 'who me?' expression on his face. The bucket which the young man had apparently just hung on the hook provided for that purpose, now lay on its side in the aisle way.

Master Alaric emerged from the box where he'd secured the horse he'd been leading, and sighed when he saw the soaked lad and dropped bucket. He crossed his arms and frowned at Beleg-Mor. "Again? Gavin makes that the sixth time this week. You know better than to do that." The black actually looked shame-faced and dropped his head to gently nudge the young man in an obvious apology.

Gavin laughed and scratched the black chin. "It's all right. You've done it to all the other lads. I was beginning to feel left out. Truce?"

Beleg-Mor snorted in agreement and picked up the bucket again.

"He's done this how many times?" Daeron asked as Gavin took the bucket from Beleg-Mor and went to refill it.

"As many times as I have lads. It's just a game. There's not a speck of malice in this fellow." The stable master said with a smile.

"Who does he belong to?" Daeron asked, reaching up to rub the glossy black neck. "He was wonderful to ride today and I want to thank them for letting me do so." His eyes were on the stallion so he missed the Stable Master's surprised look and quick glance towards the Steward.

"Why, he belongs to you, my lord," The stable master said. "As does the tack you used today."

Denethor was detangling the brush from his hair, gently scolding Thoronnaur, but he glanced at Daeron from the corner of his eye to see his reaction.

Stunned, Daeron was speechless, continuing to rub Beleg-Mor's neck as the stallion happily leaned into the attention. Finally, he managed to say, "He's mine?"

"That's what my Book says, my lord. Ride him in health." The stable master gave a small bow to Daeron and a much deeper one to Denethor before heading down the aisle. Still stunned, Daeron re-entered Beleg-Mor's box and finished grooming him, which at this point consisted mainly of detangling his mane and tail.

"Do not be teaching that young one your tricks, Thor," Denethor warned as he recommenced brushing his steed. "It looks as if he has tricks enough of his own."

The Steward finished up with the brush, and put it out of Thoronnaur's reach. "Daeron, please hand me a hoof pick."

Daeron, who had just closed the door to Beleg-Mor's box, grabbed up the one he'd been using previously and handed to the Steward. "Is there anything else you need, my lord?"

Denethor tugged at his still disarrayed hair. "Thanks to this old reprobate," he said fondly, slapping Thoronnaur's neck, "a comb would not go amiss."

Thoronnaur's sheepish apologetic look was a mirror for that which Beleg-mor had given the stable lad.

"I'll get you one, my lord."

Denethor nodded and turned his attention to Thor's feet, smiling as he listened to Daeron's retreating footsteps.

Daeron suspected that this was a trick that the Steward's mount had pulled quite frequently and therefore went to the stablemaster's office. He'd barely stepped in the doorway when Master Alaric held out a comb. "I was expecting someone to come for this any time now. If I'm not here, it will be in the top left drawer of my desk."

"Thank you." Daeron smiled, taking the comb and returning to the stallion boxes.

As Daeron returned, the Steward straightened from cleaning out Thoronnaur's off hind hoof.

"Here's a comb, my lord." Daeron offered it towards Denethor and received the hoof pick in exchange.

"So, what do you think of your new horse?" Denethor asked as he stepped from the stall and began to quickly groom his own hair.

"He's wonderful. I've dreamed of having a horse like him, but never expected..." Daeron turned his head to look at the black stallion, who was once again lipping hay from the hanging net in the corner of the box.

Gavin whistled cheerfully has he returned down the aisle lugging the refilled bucket. Apparently, he'd taken the time to change to dry breeches though his boots were still wet. It was with an expression of relief that he hung the bucket on its hook and stepped away from the box. It might be just a game to the stallion but getting drenched twice in one day was two times too many in his opinion.

The steward handed the comb back to Daeron as he replaced his overtunic and the lightweight black robe he'd worn over his riding leathers. He looked from Beleg-mor to Thoronnaur and gave the elder stallion one last pat before walking toward Beleg-Mor's stall to let the younger horse snuffle his hand. "I advise that you do not allow him to develop a taste for sugarloaf, or you will risk him learning to extort it from you like Gyldenlac does from my son."

"Thank you for the advice, my lord. Ruinanor had a taste for it as well. I think that carrots and apples will be enough treats for Beleg-mor."

The sound of the Citadel tocsin rang out.

"That is a wise idea. And, it seems that you have survived your first duty shift as a member of my guard, Lieutenant Greyvale." Denethor put his hand on Daeron's shoulder, just as the uneven sound of halting hooves came to them; the injured mounts were being led in from the stable entrance; grey Cein first, led by a limping Deleth.

"Is your leg bothering you, Daeron? It has been quite a strenuous day."

"No, my lord. It's given me no trouble at all." Daeron didn't notice the glowering look Deleth had shot at him as he'd led Cein to one of the boxes reserved for injured horses.

"Good, then you will be fit for taking up your duty on the morrow. Finish up here and report to the Watch Commander that you are off duty. Lieutenant Vorlas, you will be my escort to my quarters and then are dismissed."

"Yes, my lord," the other guard, who had continued to stand at attention (hiding his amusement at the shenanigans of the horses) while the Steward tended his mount, answered.

"Thank you, my lord," Daeron said. He stepped back as Menefil was led past by Gelim.

Denethor adjusted his robe and strode for the door, Vorlas in his wake.

Daeron gave Beleg-mor a last pat and promised to come back after he was off duty then began gathering up the grooming supplies, only to have them taken out of his hands along with the comb by Gavin. "I'll put these away, sir. Master Alaric is very strict about what goes where."

"Thank you." Daeron unrolled his sleeves and donned his gambeson and armour. He would have to return the glaive to the armoury as well, before reporting to the Watch Commander's office to sign off duty.

Daeron heard someone hail him as he was about to enter the armoury. He turned and discovered that Caerthan was striding across the courtyard in his direction.

"So, I'm hearing you had a bit of an adventure this afternoon after all." The older officer slid his glaive into its spot on the rack and grinned at Daeron.

"You could say that. What is it with Deleth? I couldn't believe it when the Stable Master said he'd lamed five horses in the past year."

"That many? I knew that his last mount foundered, but I'd not heard more than that." He turned towards the door that led towards the Watch Commanders office. "You'll need to write up a report on what happened today, but you can wait until after the evening meal to do it."

"I will. I have my daybook to write up as well."

"We all know that rumors aren't always accurate. What exactly happened?"

As the two guards headed for the watch commander's office, Daeron explained what had happened to Cein. "His hoof is a wreck and if the puncture gets infected..." he shook his head, remembering his mare.

Daeron let Caerthan precede him into the outer office.

The Watch Commander was standing in the doorway of his office, obviously waiting for someone.

"Good even, Captain Verandel," Caerthan greeted the officer as he came to attention.

"Good even, Lieutenant," Verandel said after returning the salute. "How did our newest member handle his first day of duty?" he asked as if he hadn't spoken to Daeron regarding the incident with the horses only a short time before.

"He's a credit to the Guard, sir." Caerthan replied, dropping his salute and bending over the logbook. "I'll get him started on his shift report after the meal."

Daeron remained at attention though he knew he was blushing. The sergeant seated at the other desk grinned at Daeron and turned his attention back to the paperwork in front of him.

The Watch Commander turned towards Daeron, who immediately saluted. "Congratulations on surviving your first day, Lieutenant."

Daeron waited until the commander returned his salute before replying, "Thank you, sir." Then as Caerthan had finished making his entry, he picked up the pen and dipped it in the waiting inkwell before signing off duty himself.

Halting footsteps on the stone floor outside the door stopped then got louder as Lieutenant Deleth stepped over the threshold and came into the office. He barely had a chance to come to attention, when Captain Verandel snapped out, "Deleth, my office. _Now_."

He turned and stalked through the inner door, obviously expecting the officer to follow him.

Daeron returned the pen to the holder and straightened up only to meet the eyes of the limping man. He was surprised at the expression on Deleth's face. The brown eyes were filled with spite and dislike and a flash of an emotion that Daeron wasn't able to define before Deleth followed the Watch Commander.

The inner door did not slam as it closed, but it was a near thing.

Daeron glanced at Caerthan but said nothing.

The older officer shook his head and nodded towards the outer door. "Let's stow our armor and see what they are feeding us tonight."

"If it's as good as lunch was I don't care what they give me, so long as there aren't any mushrooms in it."

Caerthan laughed and when they were outside, he asked Daeron, "What horse did they lend to you today?"

"I wasn't lent a horse. I rode my own. I suppose my father must have purchased him before he left for Cair Andros. His name is Beleg-Mor. Would you like to meet him?"

"Of course. Before or after we eat?"

"Your choice. I was planning on returning to the stable once I write up my report."

"Food first then," Caerthan decided. "And we can beg some apples or carrots as a treat for your new mount."

Daeron smiled and told Caerthan what Denethor had said regarding sugarloaf. "I'm never giving sugarloaf to another horse as long as I live. Ruinanor got to like it so much, she broke out of her stall at the academy stables once and was found in the pantries eating two month's supply of the stuff."

His companion chortled at the mental image. "I'm certain the mess cooks were less than pleased."

"So was Sergeant Ferris who got hauled out of bed to deal with the situation," Daeron added, surprised that he could talk about his lost mare with such equanimity when it hadn't been that long ago that even thinking of her had effectively choked him to the point of not being able to speak.

"Ferris? He's still at the Academy?" Caerthan held open the door to the mess hall for Daeron.

"Oh, yes. He's a fixture. I doubt he'll ever retire."

"Does he still carry that bloody swagger stick? We used to say that the Dark Lord could suddenly appear in front of him and he wouldn't drop the damned thing."

"I think it's glued to his hand, personally." Daeron snickered at the idea of the Dark Lord appearing before Ferris. "He'd probably use it on the Enemy!"

"Had a close encounter or two with it, lad?" Caerthan asked and then leant into the hatch to see what was being served.

Daeron grimaced and picked up an empty tray. "Several times in my first year, unfortunately."

"Lamb stew," Caerthan reported as he withdrew his head from the kitchen hatch. "Only your first year? He let that thing fly at me three times that I recall in my senior year alone."

"I think I finally grew enough brains to realize that no matter what he was going to win. My friend Halmir, however, is another story. We stopped counting halfway through first year on him."

"Halmir? Why does that name sound familiar?" Caerthan led the way to his usual table, a bowl of lamb stew on his tray.

"He was assigned directly to the Rangers at Henneth Annun after graduation. You might have heard about his outshooting all of a squad of rangers except for Lord Faramir." Daeron set his tray down and continued, "I suspect he might even have beaten Lord Faramir if his bowstring hadn't snapped."

"Ah... that's it. Remarkable. I wondered if it were apocryphal, since no one ever gets taken into the Rangers right out of the Academy."

"No one ever gets into the Steward's personal Guard right out of the Academy either," Daeron said with a grimace, "but here I am, and I haven't any idea of why."

"Times change, lad. I wouldn't worry much about it. Just keep doing what you're supposed to and it won't matter that most of the other officers have more years of service than you have on Arda. Actually, I'm glad you're here. Now I won't be teased about being in the youngest half dozen officers anymore."

"Glad to be of service, Caerthan," Daeron retorted as he drew his beaker of ale.

Caerthan handed Daeron his empty beaker and took the full one. "Seniority has its privileges," he teased.

"Ha, ha. I'll keep that in mind for when I finally have some."

"You'll get older every day, lad." They settled down, good-naturedly teasing back and forth at each other as they ate.

Once they finished dinner the two guards wrote up their reports and dropped them off at the Watch Commander's office. The sergeant took their reports and wished them a good night.

"All right, time to introduce me to your new steed."

Daeron recognised Gavin, the stable lad who'd been soaked by Beleg-Mor's prank and gave the young man a wave as they entered the stable. The lad was with two others who were good-naturedly arguing over where to get supper.

"Have a good night, my lord," Gavin called before his friends dragged him out of the yard.

"I'd forgotten you've your own title. Forgive me, my lord," Caerthan said as he followed Daeron along the passageway.

"_I_ keep forgetting I have my own title. And I'm still looking around to see who they're asking for when they call me Lieutenant. I'd honestly prefer it if you just call me Daeron when we're not on duty."

"All right... Daeron." Caerthan stopped dead when he saw the black stallion, stunned at the horse's magnificence.

Having recognized Daeron's voice, Beleg-Mor put his head over the door of the loose box and made an inquiring whinny. Daeron greeted his horse and laughed as Beleg-Mor snuffled over his tunic and shirt, obviously having smelled the presence of the two store apples that Daeron had tucked in his pocket while still in the officer's mess.

Thoronnaur put his head over the gate to his box and whickered at Daeron as well.

"No, I don't have sugarloaf, and you know it," Daeron told the Steward's mount. At what was obviously a disappointed look, he laughed again and asked, "Will you accept an apple, if Beleg-mor doesn't mind sharing?"

At that the two stallions looked at each other and after a moment of two, Beleg-Mor snorted once and dropped his head.

Caerthan raised his eyebrows at the stallions' antics, a bit surprised by Daeron's familiar manner towards the Steward's horse. "He's beautiful."

Daeron didn't answer, having pulled out the two apples and offered them to the two stallions. Luckily, the aisle was not so wide that he had to make one wait for the other to receive his treat. "It's obvious that Beleg-mor is from Rohan, but his name is Sindarin. I would have thought that he would have had a Rohirric name."

Caerthan moved closer to Beleg-mor and ran his eyes over the stallion's superb conformation. The only other beast currently in the stables that compared to him was Thoronnaur, the Steward's mount. "I recall almost nothing of the Sindarin my tutor tried to pound into my head. Maybe your father re-named him when he purchased him. Rohirric seems unpronounceable to me most of the time anyway"

"Perhaps. I only know a little Rohirric and that from one of the stablemen at Greyvale who married one of the maids after a midsummer fair."

"Words you can't use in polite company?" Caerthan grinned and then stood still as Beleg-Mor snuffled at his chest, investigating him.

Daeron smirked, "My mother is fortunately not aware of my Rohirric vocabulary. It's a little less than polite. At least I'll know when some drunk Rohirrim is denigrating me."

"Always good to know when you're being sworn at. I wonder how on Arda your father managed to talk the Rohirrim into selling Beleg-mor to him. He's of the King's Line, you know. Just like Thoronnaur. In fact," Caerthan caught Beleg-Mor's head gently between his hands and gazed at the bright eyes and the line of the head and arch of the neck. "If his colour was changed, you wouldn't be able to tell the two of them apart, save for Thoronnaur's white whiskers."

Daeron looked startled and looked from the black to the chestnut and back. "I didn't notice."

Caerthan slid his hands to the horse's neck and he looked through the lower bars of the box at the sleekly muscled black body. His eyes widened as he realized that the horse was intact. The Rohirrim _never_ sold stallions from the King's line, and had only occasionally gifted geldings and mares. They weren't Mearas, but in some ways were even more valuable than those mounts descended from the Lord of Horses. Lord Denethor's Thoronnaur was an exception of course. "He's a war horse fit for a prince. Your father must love you very much."

"I know my father loves me. It didn't take the gift of a horse, no matter how grand, to tell me that," Daeron said. "But I'm very grateful for the gift nevertheless." He stroked Beleg-Mor's neck and bid him a good night. "I'll be back tomorrow," he promised.

Caerthan scratched the black's neck just behind the ears for a moment and then stepped back and bowed to the stallion. "Bear him safely," he said to the horse.

Beleg-mor raised his head and give Caerthan a look that distinctly said _"As if I would do otherwise"_ then dipped his nose once before turning to investigate the contents of his feed bin.

Thoronnaur, realizing there were no more apples in the offing, ignored the humans and turned his attention to his own feed.

Daeron paused outside the stall where the grey, Cein, had been put. The farrier was in the next stall with Menefil, applying a new poultice to the gash on his foreleg.

"Good e'en, sirs," the old man said, glancing up at them.

The grey looked up at Daeron, initially skittish, but when he saw that it wasn't Deleth, the horse settled down. The damaged hoof had been shoed with a special shoe that would hopefully keep the rest of the hoof from breaking down while the damaged area grew out.

"Good evening. How are they doing?"

"Menefil will be all right. It's just a surface wound, and all stitched up nice. This is just to ease the pain and itching of the stitches, right boy?" He reached up and patted the roan's flank.

The roan dipped his head to snuffle the farrier's thinning hair then turned his attention back to his hay net.

"What about Cein?" Daeron glanced back at the unhappy grey.

The farrier got to his feet and his expression darkened as he looked over the partition. "I've put special shoe on him to support the broken hoof until it grows out again. If I get my hands on the fool who..." He remembered to whom he was talking and the mutter grew indistinct.

"I think you'll have to stand in line," Daeron said, "behind the Steward, the Watch Commander and Lieutenant Haron. I did hear that he will never work with horses again."

"Good!" The Farrier reached over the stall wall and patted Cein. "Did you hear that, boy? You're safe from him now."

The farrier continued to make much of the grey, reassuring the horse as Caerthan grinned and then indicated the door to Daeron. Resuming their stroll, they strolled down the aisleway of the barn, their boots ringing off the slate floor until they stepped out into the yard. The sun had not yet set but was thinking about doing so in an hour or two and the heat of the day was beginning to diminish.

"I think I'll make my daybook entry and go down to see how my mother and little sister are doing, if it's not too late when I get that done," Daeron decided, "but only after I change out of this uniform. Thanks for the help today. I really appreciate it."

"No, problem," Caerthan responded with a smile. "I remember my first day of duty. It wasn't _that_ long ago you know. Good night."

The Broken Barrel wasn't the only drinking establishment in the second circle frequented by the Guard, but it certainly seemed to be the most popular. Of course, some of the popularity came from the not-so-hidden fact that it was the front for a brothel of some repute.

Of course the quality of the ale sold by the owner had something to do with it as well, and the fact that the place was off limits to the academy cadets. So when Deleth and a half dozen of his cronies came in and commandeered a large table no one looked askance at the men, even though two still wore their uniforms.

At the table behind the one commandeered by the guardsmen, a good half dozen young men were congregated over mugs of ale; all of them smelling at least faintly of horse, and chattering about their day in the Citadel stables.

The two women who stood next to the end of the bar closest to the kitchen doors exchanged a long suffering look and did a "rock-scissors-paper" exchange to see which one of them would serve the Guard's table. The plump redhead lost, gave a huge sigh, and reluctantly headed over to the guardsmen's table while the other, who must have had some Rohirric blood in her family given her golden blonde hair and blue eyes and tall stature, gave a grin of relief as she went to refill the mugs of the stable lads.

The red-head took the guardsmen's orders and, for once, Deleth didn't try to make a grab at her. Instead he seemed to be angry and his friends were trying to cheer him up by commiserating with him. She gratefully headed back to the bar and started drawing mugs of ale.

Of course, she reflected as she closed the tap and set the last mug on a tray, the night was still very young and once Deleth got whatever was on his mind off of it, he'd certainly be back to his obnoxious self. If he weren't the Chancellor's nephew, she knew that the innkeeper would have refused to allow him in the place.

"Middens and gate duty, like some ignorant, illiterate buck private!" Deleth ranted, tossing back the first mug of ale.

"That's not fair!" one of his friends said. "The farrier mucks up a shoe and you take the fall for it."

"What? They can't do that!" his friend, Urias, sputtered. "You're an _officer_!"

"Not to mention in the Steward's personal Guard!"

"Greyvale should have been given Cein to ride and not that showy black! I'd like to see him on middens duty, the stuck up, spoiled brat!" Deleth grumbled, not correcting his friends comment about him being in the Steward's Guard. He'd been embarrassed enough without making that bit of information public. It would be common knowledge soon enough…

"What's he doing in the Steward's personal Guard, anyway?" another man asked. "He's only just out of the Academy."

"His father probably _bought_ him the assignment," Urias said cynically, having finished off his ale and waving towards the red haired bar maid for a refill.

The hilarity at the stable hands' table increased, almost drowning out Urias' words.

"Gavin, I _knew_ you couldn't escape forever. He's gotten all the rest of us!"

Another added, "And be glad it was only water on your boots. Gyldenlac would have pissed on them!"

"And taken a bite out of my arm for good measure," Gavin agreed, taking his friends' teasing in good part. "I'd give my soul to own a horse like Beleg-Mor. Lord Daeron is lucky to have him."

"I thought that Beleg-Mor belonged to the Steward. He's belongs to Lord Daeron?" Dieslin, one of the other lads asked.

Rhys nodded, "Lord Laedren must have half beggared himself to buy him. Did you see his bloodlines in the Stable Master's Book?"

Deleth's glower darkened as he heard that the black actually _belonged_ to Greyvale.

"Well, he _is_ Lord Laedren's only son and was the honour graduate of the academy class this year," Gavin said.

One of the guards at the next table snorted into his mug, and audibly said, "His father probably bought that for him as well."

Gavin glared at the guard and snapped, "Mind your own business."

Before the guardsmen could do anything in response to the stable lad's words, a shadow fell over both tables. Keris, the owner of the Broken Barrel (which had been named for the fact that he'd literally broken an ale barrel over the head of a thief who had intended on taking the first night's proceeds when he opened the place) was facetiously rumoured to be a half-giant. He wasn't, but was plenty large enough for the claim to have some merit. "Is there a problem, _gentlemen_?"

The occupants of both tables immediately quieted and agreed there was no problem, not wanting to be expelled from the place; as those that were usually ended up in the hands of the healers for some days.

Gavin pointedly turned his back on the guards and called for the blond barmaid to bring them another round.

As the mugs arrived, Faril commented, "Whatever Lord Laedren paid for that horse, Lord Daeron will get it all back and more in stud fees!"

Once the mugs were refilled and Gavin handed over the money for the drinks, telling the girl to keep the change, he grinned. "I can hardly wait to see Prince Imrahil's expression the first time he sees Beleg-Mor. He's been dying to get some Rohirric blood into his herds."

"I also want to know who trained the black. I've never know a better tempered or better behaved—well, with the exception of the water buckets--stallion. I'd love to apprentice under that trainer," Dieslin said.

Rhys nodded. "According to the Stable Master's Book, Beleg-mor is of the King's Line. I didn't think that they allowed them out of Rohan except to the Steward's family."

"They don't, or at least they never have before," Gavin told him.

"And I heard that Prince Theodred himself trained him!" Rhys added excitedly. "He and Lord Boromir are best friends, you know."

"Isn't Lord Daeron part of the Steward's family? A cousin or something?" asked one of the lads, who had just listened to most of the exchange.

Faril finished his mug and set it down on the table. "Not that I know of... but you never know how all the noble families are all intertwined."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I have to be up two hours before dawn to head out to the breeding farm with Master Alaric. Obsidian's last get is due to drop any day now." Gavin finished off his ale and bid his fellows a good night.

Deleth frowned as he listened to the stable lads' conversation, remembering the glimpse of the Steward with his hand on the brat's shoulder; a far too familiar position for two men who were merely superior and vassal. And Daeron looked _very_ like the Captain General, even to the width of his shoulders and height. The only difference was in the colour of their eyes; but Lady Meriel was reported to have green eyes, wasn't she?

He remembered the rumours that had flown around three years previously, before Lieutenant Kergil had been executed for attempting to murder Lord Boromir. Laedren's wife had been courted by the Steward's Heir when she first came to the City and, from all accounts, the marriage between her and Laedren of Greyvale had occurred with almost unseemly haste...

With Gavin's departure, the younger stable lads' conversation turned to the quality of the ale and they began to tease Dieslin about his admiration for the blonde barmaid.

Deleth ignored his fellows' conversation as his mind sorted through the various rumours and facts, and put together a picture that made him smile ferally. If he was going to be dishonored, he'd make sure to bring dishonor on the brat and the Steward's family as well.

"Hey, Deleth, did you hear me?" the man to his left nudged him again. "We're going in back. Want to come along?"

Deleth scowled. He was essentially broke, having been told his pay was going to be docked for the replacement cost of Cein. "No, I need to go speak to my uncle." Uncle Maedreth had been generous in the past. Hopefully he would continue to be so because Deleth had more debts in the City than just a round of ale and the price of a whore that needed to be paid.

He watched his friends disappear down the corridor that led to the brothel, drained his mug and rose to leave, tossing down a coin as he did so. It was his last one but he'd have plenty more by the time he left his uncle's house.

Daeron stepped from the tunnel onto the cobbles of the main road that ran through the Sixth Level of the City, blinking as his eyes got used once more to the brighter light. Being summer, the sun set late and the difference between the torch lit tunnel and daylight was significant. He automatically stepped to the side so as to not block the passage or be in the way of passing traffic.

After two weeks he was still getting used to being able to do as he pleased when not on duty after five years of being restricted to the Academy grounds unless he was granted a pass. It was only the matter of a few minutes brisk walk to reach the front steps of the Greyvale townhouse once he could see without being blinded by glare. With his usual precognition, Bendrel opened the front door just as Daeron's foot reached the top step.

"Good evening, Bendrel."

Before Daeron could say another word, the elderly butler had gestured towards the passage that led to the garden door. "Your lady mother is in the garden, young lord. I will bring refreshments momentarily."

Daeron rolled his eyes at the butler's use of the honorific, grinned, and turned to make his way down the corridor. He opened the door to the garden and his grin widened to see his mother and his baby sister. "Good evening, mother, Fin-lass."

Meriel was bouncing the five month old on her knee, and looked up with a smile. "Daeron. I didn't know if you were going to be able to come home tonight or not. How was your first day on guard duty instead of training?"

Fin squealed with delight and reached for her big brother, straining against Meriel's hands.

"Interesting to say the least. Well, standing guard at doorways is dull, but I went out with five other guards as the Steward's escort when he went riding this afternoon. It was certainly better than the past two weeks going through orientation." Daeron crossed the flagstones and held out his hands to his little sister. "Who are _you_? I'm sure that Fin wasn't this big when I saw her two weeks ago."

He lifted her up and swung her round before drawing her close and planting a kiss on her black curls. She giggled and grabbed at his tunic.

Meriel smiled. "She's been growing overnight, just like you did. Sit down and cool off. The peach tree's shade has been a real relief today."

Daeron leaned forward and kissed his mother and then did as she suggested. It was distinctly cooler under the shade of the peach tree and the air was redolent with the rich scent of the ripening fruit. Finduilas grabbed at the fastenings on Daeron's tunic, babbling a bit of nonsense as she did so. It was almost as if she were trying to comment about them to him.

"I'm sorry Fin. but I don't speak your language yet." Daeron reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a strand of silver beads that he'd purchased with his first pay packet. He'd spied the bauble while walking through one of the City markets on his way back home from one of the horse fairs, but had forgotten to give it to his sister. He hoped that it would distract her from his tunic fastenings. He could sew but preferred not to have to reattach loose buttons every time he saw his baby sister. "Here, Fin. This is yours."

Her eyes widened at the shiny string of beads and she immediately grabbed for it.

Since Fin was happily playing with her bauble, Daeron sat her down on the blanket that Meriel had placed on the flagstones next to the chairs and small table.

"So," Meriel asked, reaching up above her head to pluck a ripe peach that was in reach. "If standing guard is dull, what made the day interesting?"

"My new horse."

In act of handing the peach to Daeron, his mother stilled, a puzzled look on her face. "A new horse?" She dropped the fruit into his hand, picked another one for herself, and reached for the paring knife that lay on the low table.

Daeron blinked at his mother's puzzlement. He would have thought that his father would have mentioned buying Beleg-Mor to her. "Yes, I expected to have to use one of the horses from the cavalry pool but when we got to the stables, Master Alaric led out Beleg-Mor. I thought I was just being allowed to ride him because he needed exercise."

He paused, his mind back in the stable yard when he first laid eyes on the magnificent animal. "He's the most beautiful stallion I've ever seen."

Meriel began to pare her peach and nodded. Laedren had been in the field pretty much constantly since the night that Halmir had left to go to Ithilien with the Rangers. It was likely that he'd just not had a chance to say anything to her about it before he and the Captain-General had left the townhouse that night.

"When we got back from the ride, I asked Master Alaric who owned Beleg-Mor so I could thank him for the privilege of riding him, and he said that he belonged to me."

Daeron turned his attention back to the peach in his hand and took a bite out of it, hastily licking the juice that threatened to run down his chin before continuing. "Beleg-Mor can even keep up with Thoronnaur; which turned out to be a very good thing. Two of the escort's horses were hurt while we were outside the gates."

Meriel almost dropped the knife, a flash of worry in her face. "Were you attacked?" Her Godfather's daily rides were reasonably predictable, she knew. With the need to return to the Citadel before dark, there were only so many routes or miles he could ride. Her blood chilled at the thought that some enemy might take advantage of Denethor being with out the walls.

"No," Daeron reassured her. "One of the horses lost a shoe and when he stumbled and shied, he knocked another off his feet." He looked at his partially eaten peach in silence for a few moments before raising his head and catching Meriel's eyes. "Cein's hoof is all torn up and Menefil had to have his foreleg stitched but they'll both be fine in time. Luckily, neither of their riders were hurt."

"That's good to hear. For a moment..." She sighed. "You'd think after all these years of your father's military service; I wouldn't automatically jump to terrifying conclusions."

"Honestly, mother, now that I've been to the Academy and gone through those exercises and read all that military history, I don't understand how you always stayed so serene when Father was out in the field. I think you've got to be braver than any of the members of the Guard or the Army." He absently took another bite of the peach and glanced over at Finduilas who was happily waving her bauble about and giggling.

"It's an acquired skill, Daeron. The first few times, I cried my eyes out. But then I realized how much that upset your father--and I knew that if he were upset, he wouldn't be able to keep himself safe as well as I needed him to. So I learned to put on my serene mask." She looked at the peach and began slicing it into wedges, releasing the pit. "Inside, though, I still worry and there are many nights that I lay awake, praying for your father's and your safety."

"As I pray for you and Fin and father," Daeron told her. "And Lord Boromir and his family as well."

Suddenly Fin gave a loud shriek, drawing Meriel and Daeron's attention. The silver bead necklace lay two feet out of her reach where she'd apparently thrown it. She had flopped forward onto her hands in trying to get to it and was loudly voicing her frustration.

Daeron grinned and left his chair to get it for her. He picked it up and knelt next to her, intending on dropping it around her neck. Before he could do that, Fin pushed up on her hands and, finding her balance, sat up and reached for the necklace, babbling something that had all the imperativeness of "Give it to me!"

Daeron laughed and handed her the necklace and looked up at his mother. "I didn't know she was able to sit up."

Meriel laughed, "I didn't either! It's the first time she's managed it by herself."

Daeron looked back at his baby sister feeling inordinately proud of her then he reached over and tickled her ribs for a moment before giving her a hug and a kiss. She gurgled and grabbed at his hair without dropping the necklace, and leaned into his face, pressing her mouth against his cheek in a sloppy attempt at a kiss.

"Ouch!" Daeron carefully removed his hair from her grip. "Thank you, Fin-lass, but you have to stop pulling hair. Ladies don't do that, you know."

"Here, let her chew on this for a bit." Meriel handed a slice of peach to Daeron. "And tell me more about--Beleg-mor?"

Daeron handed the peach slice to Finduilas and returned to his chair, wiping his face with his pocket handkerchief. "Yes, Beleg-Mor. 'The strong black one' if I remember my Sindarin. He's from Rohan, black with a white star and four white socks, and whoever trained him did a _phenomenal_ job."

He continued to describe the stallion with great enthusiasm. Sometime during the recitation Bendrel brought out a light supper and chilled wine. "Master Alaric told me that he's from the King's Line, and Caerthan noticed that he looks like he could be related to Thoronnaur when we went to the stable after we got off duty."

Meriel never lost her expression of interest, despite the disquiet that arose as she heard more details about the stallion. The estates had done quite well and the family coffers were more than adequate to keep them in comfort for the next several years, _but how had Laedren managed to pay for such an animal?_

Fin had abruptly dropped in her tracks, as many babies do, and was asleep, her fists still clenched around the silver bead necklace. Meriel smiled as she noticed that her daughter had finally succumbed to sleep, and leaned forward to pick her up to carry her into the house.

Daeron got out of his chair. "I'll take her in." He scooped up his baby sister and smiled at Meriel. "After all, you get to do it every day."

He still couldn't believe how beautiful Finduilas was or how small she seemed, even though she had obviously been growing since he was last home two weeks ago. He had memories of seeing a cousin or two of Fin's age but he was certain they hadn't been like his little sister.

Meriel got to her feet. "Thank you, Daeron." She leaned up and kissed his cheek and then kissed Fin on top of her black curls. As she walked with her children into the house, she mentioned, "By the way, I just received an invitation from the Citadel to attend a reception in honor of Prince Imrahil and his wife in a fortnight. Do you know if you will be on duty at that time? If your father is not back from his duty, I'd like you to be my escort."

"I can check when I sign back in and send a message tomorrow letting you know. Honestly, I had so much to remember about who was permitted to interrupt the Steward and who was allowed to go where, that things like off-duty sort of slipped my mind." Daeron shifted Finduilas to one arm and opened the garden door for his mother. "I'd be very happy to escort you if father isn't back."

Meriel led the way upstairs to Fin's nursery, and drew the light summer blanket down so Daeron could lay his sister down in her cradle.

Daeron paused and looked at Finduilas' sleeping face for a long moment before kissing her and laying her down in the cradle on her tummy. "Sweet dreams, Fin. Eru and the Valar keep you."

Meriel reached into the cradle to remove the beads from her daughter's fingers, not wanting Fin to accidentally turn in her sleep and wrap them about herself. Fin didn't rouse but her fingers migrated to her mouth and she sighed happily in her sleep.

Daeron chuckled and pulled the light blanket up over her before looking back at Meriel. "Did I do that?" he whispered.

She smiled at him, gathering up the beads in her left hand as her right transferred a kiss from her lips to Fin's cheek. "Yes," she said softly. "Although you preferred your thumb to your fingers. Your father would bless you every night, the way you just did for Fin." Meriel turned towards the door after blowing out all but the shielded night light.

"I didn't know where the words came from. They just seemed _right_." Daeron looked back down at his baby sister, smiling as he did so. From the very first moment he held her, a place in his heart that he hadn't realised was empty had filled.

Daeron followed his mother from the room and into the hallway, oddly reluctant to leave his sibling. "What have you been doing, mother? I think I've told you all my news."

"Missing your father, missing you." She glanced up at him. "I'd gotten used to your being home during your recuperation." She added, "I've been busy in the still room of course."

"I miss being home as well. I know I'm only up a level in the Guard's barracks but sometimes it seems as though I'm on the other side of Arda," he told her as he took her arm before they went down the stairs. He made a face at the mention of the still room. "You're still making those awful draughts, I suppose," he said, remembering the bitter taste of willow bark and slippery elm among other unpleasant things. "Have you ever thought about making them actually taste good?"

"If they tasted good, there would be no incentive to get better," she teased. "I've also been working on the bases of some fruit meads this year, since the peaches and plums have grown in such abundance."

"Are you going to use all the fruit? I was thinking it would be nice to take some back to the barracks," he asked, ignoring what Meriel said regarding incentive to get better.

"There's plenty. The kitchen boy collected a large basketful today, so help yourself before you go back."

"Thank you. I'm sure Caerthan and the other guards in my corridor will be very appreciative." He paused at the entrance to her sitting room.

"Will you stay a bit longer, or do you need to be back soon?"

Daeron looked at the time candle in the hallway and answered, "I can stay another hour; then I really ought to get back."

Bendrel appeared from further down the hallway, a small tray holding a teapot, cups and a plate of cakes.

"Ah, thank you, Bendrel. In the sitting room, if you please."

The sitting room had acquired a few new cushions but otherwise was much the same as it had been the afternoon Daeron and his friends had spent in it shortly after he'd broken his leg. The fireplace, not being in use due to the summer heat had been filled with a large arrangement of flowers in shades of yellow, orange and red, and the windows had been opened to take advantage of whatever breeze might happen by.

Meriel sat down in a gilded chair behind the embroidery frame near the window and picked up a needle from the edge of the tapestry work.

Bendrel set the tray on the low table by the sofa and withdrew.

Daeron waited until Bendrel had left and crossed to the tea tray. He poured out a cup for his mother of the fragrant beverage, added a small amount of cream and took it and the plate of cakes over to where she sat. "Here, mother."

"Thank you, dear." She began to draw the silver thread through the linen in neat, even stitches.

"What are you making?" Daeron asked as he got his own tea.

"Your father's new dress tunic arrived from the tailor, but I didn't care much for the quality of the embroidery they did on the last one. So I'm stitching our House's device for it. When I'm done this, I'll be starting on one for you."

Daeron sat down in a nearby chair and took a sip of tea before fingering the embroidered cuff of his shirt. "I remember when you made this. It still amazes me to see what you do with just a needle and thread."

"Have you done any more leatherworking?" Meriel looked over the embroidery frame at him, her expression sober.

"No. But I woke up the first night in barracks and filled about ten pages of my daybook with sketches." Daeron's face became pensive and his eyes got a faraway look.

She was silent. If he didn't wish to describe them, she wouldn't push.

"It was odd," he finally said. "I drew what looked like three different battles but the rest of the drawings were of people." He blinked and looked at Meriel. "One of them was a dark-haired man, very noble and wise looking; he was wearing the Winged Crown. He looked a lot like the statue of Isildur that's in the Hall of Kings but I don't think he was Isildur."

"Maybe you dreamed about the day when the King comes back," she said lightly, referring to the expression used by both common and noble folk to indicate that something happening was either a long time in the coming or not likely to happen at all.

Daeron seemed to realise he still held his cup of tea and drank from it absently, his mind on the other things he'd dreamed. "Perhaps. Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing if it actually happened?"

"It would. Although it would certainly change things! Did you recognize any of the other people you drew?"

He had no intention of telling his mother about the last of the drawings. She didn't need to know that he'd dreamed of Laedren and Boromir besieged on all sides by Mordor's forces.

"Yes. One of them was Lord Denethor. He looked exhausted and worn. The others, I don't know who any of them are. One was a dwarf of all things!" He'd seen a grand total of two dwarves in his life, and that had been whilst on the road between Minas Tirith and Greyvale when he was nine years old.

"A dwarf? Did it look like the ones we met all those years ago when we were going to the Manor for Midsummer?"

"Yes, but it wasn't either of them. I've never forgotten their faces. After all, I'd never seen anything like them before." Daeron grinned, remembering his wonder at the luxuriously braided beards and the idea that not every grown-up was as tall as his father.

Meriel chuckled. "I still remember the astounded expression on your face."

He set down his teacup and stretched, noticing that night had fallen when he glanced out the nearest window. "Maybe they're people I'll meet one day. I'd better be getting back to the barracks. I'll send you a message tomorrow letting you know when I'll be off-duty."

She lifted her face for his kiss, her fingers still working on the head of the silver rose. "Good night, darling son. May Eru bless you and the Valar guard your sleep this night."

Daeron bent down and kissed his mother. "Good night, mother. May you likewise be blessed and dream of nothing by good things. I love you." When he straightened up he found that Bendrel had appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, a basket containing peaches in his hands.

"I'd love to know how you do that, Bendrel," Daeron said shaking his head, looking to Meriel's eyes very much like his father in that instant.

"Practice, young lord. Merely practice." The elderly butler smiled and handed the basket to Daeron. "Have a good night."

Daeron turned back towards Meriel and bowed before leaving and starting back to the barracks, the basket held under one arm.

Chancellor Maedreth looked askance at his nephew who was presently making heavy inroads into his supply of brandy. "I think you've had more than enough to drink, Deleth," he said, indicating to the waiting servant to remove the decanter and glasses from the room. "You may go. I will ring if I need any thing else." Once he was certain the man was out of earshot he let his irritation show "Why on Arda did you decide to assault Greyvale's heir in the Mess today? I told you to make friends with him."

"Me make friends with that spoiled brat? The only reason he got the assignment is because of who his father is."

"Regardless, you disobeyed me and now I'm going to have to grease some palms to keep you in the City, not to mention your idiocy in regards to that horse. Tell, me Deleth, did my sister drop you on your head as an infant?"

Deleth didn't reply but scowled at his propped up foot. He'd gone to see a healer after the Watch Commander had finished reaming him out and had gotten no sympathy and frankly little aid. The man hadn't even provided a pain killer, for Eru's sake! However, his uncle's next words brought his attention back to the conversation in a hurry.

Maedreth seated himself in his favorite chair and stated in a clear, hard voice. "One more gaffe like today's and you are on your own, boy. I have no intention of wasting any more money on a broken tool."

"But, _uncle_--!"

"But me no buts. I'm going to give you a sufficient amount of money to keep you solvent for the next month but you _will_ follow the instructions I give to you to the letter, or you'll have to explain to your creditors just why you can't pay them. Understand?"

"Yes, uncle." The younger man's tone was anything but polite but Maedreth knew he had his attention now.

"Good." He withdrew a heavy pouch from his robe and tossed it at his nephew. "I want you to spread some rumours for me and ask some questions in certain quarters. You don't need to get answers. I just want people to start thinking about some things."

"Do you still want me to make friends with the brat?" Deleth asked sullenly. If he did he wouldn't be able to fulfill the plans he'd made on his way from the Broken Barrell.

"No. It's too late for that now. Instead I want you to…" Maedreth proceeded to give Deleth his instructions, none of which the younger man found he was loathe to do.

A few hours later the Chancellor sat alone in the room, his now sober nephew having left, primed with the information that would ensure Maedreth's plans were set in motion. Now he needed to write a letter and send it north. It was too bad that he hadn't remembered that Meriel had thrown over the Steward's heir for Greyvale the last time he was out of the city visiting his holdings in the Upper Vales. It was much easier to send the messages from Valecroft than Minas Tirith and he had a feeling that bit of old scandal could prove useful to his correspondent.

Tomorrow he would bring up the issue of the need to know what was going on in the far parts of the realm to Denethor again. Perhaps if he blew the results of a minor skirmish out of proportion he could make the man feel some urgency about the matter and he'd use that Stone that was sitting there gathering dust up in the Tower…

"Swithin, bring me some of that brandy and my writing box," he called. If his correspondent could be patient for say a year or two, then everything would fall nicely into place and he, currently the Chancellor of Gondor, might find himself in an even more powerful position.

Halfway back to the entrance of the tunnel up to the Citadel level Daeron was almost run into by someone who cursed and shoved him away after stumbling down the steps of the Chancellor's townhouse. The basket slipped from his grasp and fell, scattering the fruit over the roadway. When the man stepped back into the pool of light created by the torches that were set to each side of the ornate doors Daeron recognized Deleth.

Deleth sneered at Daeron, after glaring down at his own boots, having stepped on one of the fallen peaches as he stumbled back. "Watch where you are going, _Lieutenant_." The emphasis he put on the rank made it an insult.

"I was. You're the one who ran into me," Daeron answered evenly, stooping down to retrieve the basket. _It's not worth getting into a fight with him_, he reminded himself as he picked it up. Most of the peaches were now smashed against the cobblestones but a fair half dozen had managed to remain in the basket in the nest of straw that Bendrel had placed them in.

The older officer scraped the remains of the peach from the bottom of his boot on the cobblestones and spat, "I'm surprised you don't have a servant to carry that for you and clean up your messes." He stepped past Daeron and kicked another spoiled peach towards the younger man before disappearing up the darkened street towards the torches that marched the entrance to the tunnel leading to the seventh level.

Daeron stood up and sighed with a combination of exasperation and disgust. _Whatever did I do to him_? The peaches on the roadway would be gone by morning, courtesy of the feral cats and dogs that roamed even this level of the City. At least he had enough left to share out with Caerthan and whoever was on Charge of Quarters tonight.

It was only as he opened the door to his room that it occurred to him to wonder what Deleth had been doing at the Chancellor's townhouse at such a late hour.

Laedren came into the office that Boromir always used when he was operating out of Cair Andros, carrying a dispatch case that was covered in road dust. "The mail is in," he said, dropping the sealed bag onto the desk in front of the Captain General. "The courier is down in the kitchens, getting his midday meal."

Boromir coughed and waved away the cloud of dust that puffed up when the case hit the desk. "_Gah!_ 'Dren! Couldn't you have knocked the dust off before you brought it in?"

"I did."

Boromir eyed his friend and adjutant askance and turned the bag so that he could inspect the seal. It was cracked. "Remind me to have the quartermaster find another source for seal discs. The latest ones have too much lead in them." However, the cords that held the bag closed were still affixed and it was obvious that no one had gotten at the contents of the bag.

Boromir emptied bag on his desk then dropped the empty satchel on the floor. "Drag over a chair and help me go through this."

Laedren did so and picked up a handful of sealed parchments and began to sort them.

"Hmmm. Orders transferring the surgeon to Osgiliath and informing us that someone named Stichel will be coming to take his place," Ori said, scanning the first document he came to before setting it aside. "About time, too. The man is a menace."

"I feel for the poor souls in Osgiliath who will be at his mercy, but it's a relief that we won't lose any more of these troops to his incompetence." Laedren said, "The quartermaster is sending the next supply train a week early. That's more good news."

"If I have my way, the butcher won't be at Osgiliath very long. And what have we here? _Lovely_; a notice that the inspector general has found 'significant ambiguities' with the inventories of weapons and uniforms. That's a job for _you_." Ori shoved the paper across to Laedren with an evil grin.

Laedren shook his head. "If an inventory is only one item off, he considers it 'significant'. This looks like a personal letter for you." He handed the missive to Boromir without looking at the content, when a waft of rather strong perfume drifted from the parchment when he broke the seal.

"Ha! It's from cousin Lothiriel, of course. I'd know her perfume anywhere." Boromir immediately shoved all the other items in Laedren's direction, unfolded the papers and settled back in his chair to read the letter from his olfactorily-challenged cousin.

The office was quiet for some time except for the sound of rustling paper and the cracking of seals.

"Ori," Laedren eventually said after ignoring several snickers from his Captain-General. "I don't appear to have been losing my mind lately, have I?"

"No, not that I've noticed. Why?" Boromir looked up from his cousin's letter, which was full of the gossip from Dol Amroth as well as several biting (and likely accurate) commentaries on the local political scene.

"Then I'd surely remember purchasing a stallion of the King's Line from Rohan for my son, wouldn't I?" Laedren looked up at Boromir over the page of folded parchment he held, a disturbed expression on his face.

"_What?_" Boromir looked up from his letter. "A stallion of the King's Line? The only stallion of the King's Line ever permitted to leave Rohan in its entire history was Thoronnaur."

"Daeron has sent me a letter thanking me for the gift of his new mount; Ruinanor's successor. Named Beleg-mor; it's a black stallion of the King's Line." He handed the letter over to Boromir. "I'd been negotiating with the breeder from whom I'd gotten Ruinanor, but then we were summoned into the field."

Boromir let the remaining pages of Lothiriel's letter flutter to the floor as he took the neatly written sheet from his adjutant. Frowning, he skimmed over Daeron's greeting and offering of filial duty to Laedren, as well as the detailed description of Daeron's first day of duty in the Steward's guard. Then, reaching where Daeron thanked Laedren for the mount, read more carefully. "Not only is the animal from the King's Line, he's one of Thoronnaur's grandsons," he said as he deciphered Daeron's excited sentences. He looked back at Laedren. "'Dren, Thoronnaur has only covered one mare, and that was Eanfled, Theoden's senior King's Line mare. None of their get were _ever_ to leave the Mark."

"Ori, what if the animal was stolen? And sold to a breeder who wasn't scrupulous about where he got his stock? But one thing hasn't changed; I _never_ purchased Daeron a new mount."

"It's been unusually hot this summer; do you think Daeron might have suffered heat stroke from standing too long in the sun wearing his helm?" Boromir handed the letter back to his adjutant.

"From reading that, I think anything is possible," Laedren responded. "I'd have to sell three-quarters of my family lands to even approach the purchase price of an 'ordinary' Rohirric stallion and my younger brothers and in-laws would certainly have much to say about that! Not to mention Meriel."

"Well, we are due some leave at the end of next month, unless my father finds some reason to recall me sooner. The mystery will be solved then."

"There shouldn't _be_ a mystery." Laedren rose and started pacing around the office. "Who would give my son a horse that is worth more than my entire patrimony? Who could afford it? And _why_?"

Boromir sighed. When Laedren got like this all one could do was wait him out. Eventually, his adjutant would calm down and be back to his usual efficient self. He reached over and poured himself some wine from the nearby decanter. It was a hellaciously hot summer, one of the hottest in his memory, and even in the stone walled administration block of the Cair Andros garrison it was warm. "'Dren, sit down before you collapse from heat stroke yourself. You're making me hot just watching you." He poured out another cup of wine and held it out to his adjutant.

Sighing, Laedren stopped pacing, accepted the drink and took a seat. "This makes no sense, Ori."

"There's no way that any horse of King's Line breeding would be able to be stolen. They're too well guarded. The only way one would be able leave Edoras would be by order of King Theoden." The Steward's Heir paused, thinking about the possibilities that would lead to the stallion being in Minas Tirith.

"What do I write back to Daeron? He's obviously in love with the horse already."

"Respond to his other news but don't mention the horse. I want to get a few questions answered before you do and luckily, Theodred's errand rider is still here."

Ori wasn't going to say anything to Laedren at this point, but he strongly suspected that his own father had a hand in the matter. Theodred was usually at Helm's Deep but had his own spies in Edoras and should be able to ascertain by what means the stallion left Rohan and who was its original recipient.

Laedren set his cup down and nodded. "Then I'll get back to sorting the dispatches." He made an effort of will and put his son's letter out of his thoughts, but the confusion about the regal stallion left a crease between his eyebrows as he began to take notes about the documents he reviewed for the Captain-General.

TBC


End file.
